


A Thousand Beautiful Things

by geoviki



Series: A Thousand Beautiful Things Universe [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-25
Updated: 2004-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 104,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geoviki/pseuds/geoviki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy struggles with changed fortunes, shifted alliances, an ugly war, and an unusual spell, with the help of a concerned professor, an insightful house-elf, and an unexpected Gryffindor friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Original Chapters 1-4

## A Thousand Beautiful Things

### by Duinn Fionn (aka Geoviki)

_Summary:_ Draco Malfoy struggles with changed fortunes, shifted alliances, an ugly war, and an unusual spell, with the help of a concerned professor, an insightful house-elf, and an unexpected Gryffindor friend. HP/DM

This story was first published on May 25th, 2004, and was last updated on October 30th, 2012.

Many thanks to my betas: Isis, Aja, and Zionsstarfish. More author notes at end of chapter 9.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_Every day I write the list of reasons why I still believe they do exist (a thousand beautiful things)._  
A Thousand Beautiful Things - Annie Lennox

. . . . . . . .

"What's your earliest memory of me, Dean?"

Dean Thomas allowed a smile to ghost across his face. Seamus had reached that time of the evening when the balance between the late hour and just enough liquor made him mellow and introspective. It was a mood that meshed very well with his own.

"You already know. Our first time going up to Hogwarts, that first year. You gave me my first chocolate frog, and then told me stories about growing up in a wizarding family."

"Half-wizarding."

"Half-wizarding. Still, you got the important half. To someone like me, from Muggle East London, you were very impressive."

Seamus cracked a smile and took another long swallow of his drink. "To _anyone_ , I was very impressive, mate."

"And we'd both just got our wands-"

"Willow, mermaid hair, ten inches-"

"Nine and three quarters," Dean reminded him.

Seamus moved to pull his wand out, but stopped himself before Dean could. "It's grown since then," he joked.

"Liar. Anyway, on the train, you showed me how to flip open girls' robes."

"Oh, man. Remember Susan Bones? She was so hacked off."

"Hell, yes! I thought she was going to turn you into a eunuch."

"That was you," Seamus said. "I was the one who talked her out of it."

Dean laughed. "And that sixth-year girl. You pervy sod."

"I was talented, wasn't I? I taught you everything you know. Everything important, anyway."

"Talented? The girls probably had another word for it." He caught the eye of the waiter and touched his empty glass, nodding at the mouthed question of _refill_. It had been his night to choose their watering hole, and tonight he'd opted for this trendy Muggle jazz club near King's Cross Station. Seamus never complained at their wanderings around town - Dean rarely settled on the same place twice - but when it was his turn, they always ended up at the same wizard pub near the Ministry.

"C'mon. All the girls loved me at school."

Dean nodded politely, though he had his doubts. "And you? Same question."

"You drew a picture for me that first week."

Dean didn't recall that. "Of you?"

"No. Of Neville, of all people. But I thought you were talented, even then."

He was touched at the simple memory - he'd expected some kind of sarcastic answer. "Thanks, Seamus."

"I wish I still had it - I could make a fortune for an early piece of Dean Thomas art."

"Nah. I'd have to be dead. And don't get any ideas, Seamus."

"Me? No fear. Who'd take me out drinking then?"

"So what happened to it?"

"Scabbers got hold of it. Chewed the shit out of it, and I threw it away. I hope it gave him diarrhea."

Accompanied by the soft piano, they continued to reminisce. Some of their odd stories reduced them to gales of laughter, but those happy memories were interrupted too often by reminders of what had followed, leaving Dean feeling melancholy over someone close who hadn't survived the war.

"The first time I saw the Weasley twins, they were trying out some kind of weird colorizing spell. Were you there that night?" Seamus asked.

"God, yes! Everyone in the common room had either red or yellow skin. It was disgusting."

"You were the only one who looked half-way normal. It didn't show up too well on you. Made you a bit bronzy, was all."

"I remember one time knocking over a huge stack of books onto Hermione."

"In Charms? I remember that. You practically flattened her," said Seamus.

"Yeah. She nearly hexed me for it, but Flitwick was watching."

"Do you remember the time Padma Patil tried to transfigure a pen into a pillow and instead came up with a dildo?"

Dean chuckled - he'd forgotten all about that. "The look on McGonagall's face when she saw it-"

"The look on Padma's face was worse."

"How about the morning Lavender knocked over her cauldron in Potions, and put everyone to sleep for the rest of the day?" Dean could still picture how odd everyone looked when they'd finally awakened - all slobbery and with strange lines on their faces from sleeping on books and quills.

Seamus snorted with amusement. "And Malfoy woke up with the worst case of bedhead I'd ever seen."

"Oh, right, I remember that! He looked worse then than he did that time Harry hexed him on the Hogwarts train home."

"Which time?"

Dean nodded. "Point."

"Sweet Mary and Joseph - Malfoy and his hair fetish. Shit, he's still prissy about it, don't you think?"

"I'm not about to bite the hand that feeds me." Dean grew serious. "I remember, though, after the last battle.... He wasn't worried about it, then. You didn't see him that day, but I-"

Seamus reached out a hand and settled it on Dean's arm. "Don't, mate. No war stories. Not tonight. You don't want to make an Irishman weepy, do you?"

Dean knew what he was really asking. "It's okay. I'm over it. Well, ninety-nine percent over it."

Seamus smiled. "When it's a hundred percent, could you let me know?"

"You'll be the first, I promise. No more secrets between us. I'm done with that." Dean returned the smile and felt better than he had in months. "So you can talk about Malfoy all you like."

"No war memories, though. And all my memories of Malfoy at school are nasty."

Dean was thoughtful for a minute. "I remember a nicer one."

Seamus pulled a long swallow from his bottle. "Spill, then."

"It was in sixth-year Potions, back when Snape started missing more and more classes."

"The spring before he left to join the Death Eaters?"

"Right. Pomfrey was filling in for him. But we didn't always have a Potions lesson when she was there. That day, she brought in something that looked like a Pensieve - we only used it once, and I can't even remember what it was called. Do you remember it?"

Seamus nodded. "Instead of liquid, it was filled with sand or something, wasn't that it?"

"Yeah. And Pomfrey wanted us to use it to draw out our most important memory, something we thought was at the center of our life. To focus on, when we needed something happy to make a _Patronus._ But I never did get it to work."

"Nor me, either." Seamus chuckled. "I mean, how old were we then? Sixteen? What kind of idea did we have about what was at the center of our life? Beyond Quidditch, skiving off homework, and girls? She should have known we were doomed to failure. None of us could make it work."

Dean frowned slightly. "No, don't you remember? Malfoy did. We all watched him recreate the one thing he thought was most important to him, there in the sand. He didn't even break a sweat to do it, it was so simple for him. But do you remember what it was?"

Seamus shook his head. "No, what? A pile of galleons? A set of designer robes? Maybe a pearl-inlaid comb?"

"No." He hesitated, then said, "It was Malfoy Manor. A perfect image of it, right there in Pomfrey's bowl of sand."

Seamus' smile faded and it took him a long time to answer. "That explains a lot, don't you think?"

"A lot. But not everything."

* * *

A hundred miles and a world away, the subject of their conversation was kicking forcefully with his expensively shod foot at his father's study door. The booming sound echoing down the corridors finally roused Sully, the Manor's house-elf.

"Is Master Draco wanting to go inside?" she managed to ask between the reverberations of his boot against the sealed door. Draco gave her a deliberate stare but didn't answer.

She took a last look at his face, fierce in its determination, and snapped her unnaturally long fingers. The door swung open, and he made himself walk in before he could change his mind. Sully trotted at his heels nervously. She didn't ask him anything else, but got down to the matter of preparing the room by lighting the torches and igniting the fire in the grate. He waited, motionless and silent, until she finished.

He'd put off visiting this room until tonight. He hadn't been inside it for months - when he'd sealed it off, it was with the hope that he'd never have to set foot in it again. But tonight - his last ever at Malfoy Manor - he needed to pay it one final visit.

He'd come with a vague notion of scouring the room for any last items he might want to take with him, but now that he was actually inside, he dismissed that idea as absurd. Bare shelves and niches marked the former locations of Dark artifacts now in the Ministry's possession. What was left after their sweep was of dubious value - things like a decorative hand mirror that, with a word, would speak the concealed thoughts of your friends, or an exquisite goblet that compelled you to endlessly refill and drain it, until you were utterly drunk.

Sully was waiting for him to show interest in any of the things here, as he'd done in the other rooms in the Manor. Then she'd prepare them to be moved to his new home. But nothing remaining had any importance to him. He wanted no reminders of this room or its former inhabitant. The Ministry were welcome to it all.

He found himself walking behind his father's richly carved desk and sitting down - something he couldn't recall ever doing before. Lucius' invisible presence cast such a possessive shadow, however, that Draco immediately stood up again. As he did, he noticed a familiar book resting on the desk, and he frowned. He thought he'd left it in his own room - Sully must have returned it to its original place.

He automatically picked it up and started leafing through it. Without a translation spell, he barely understood the words, but he didn't need to read them to know exactly what they said - he had burned them in his memory months ago.

_No puedes hablar. No puedes escribir._

You may not speak. You may not write.

_Puedes tocar. Puedes besar._

You may touch. You may kiss.

Abruptly, he could no longer suppress the overpowering memories of the last five years, and a violent anger surged through him. He shoved the book at Sully, then, grabbing a handful of papers, he strode over to the fire and flung them in. Instantly, they flared up. Satisfied at the result, he followed them with a clutch of books, which ignited with the same gratifying effect.

He was reckless with his labors now. Sully, for her part, grew more alarmed with every passing moment. "Master Draco, what is you doing? Please, sir, stop!"

But he was nowhere near to stopping. This was cathartic. It was exhilarating. With every object demolished, every reminder erased, every shadowy thing destroyed, his heart grew lighter and lighter until he was drunk with it.

He snatched a blazing stick out of the flames and with the burning end began to set fire to those things he couldn't hope to move. Sully was frantic now, wailing loudly and jerking at his arm with considerable force, but Draco wasn't about to be distracted from what had become his holy mission. The curtains, the books on the shelf, the plush sofa where he used to sit and watch Lucius work - all proved to be remarkably, dramatically flammable. Everything around him was being purified in flames.

"No, Master Draco! You is going to be killing yourself if you does not stop." He must have crossed beyond what his house-elf was prepared to allow him to do. She swiftly contained the flames to those things already alight, and soon the fires were dying all around them.

Draco began to cough from the smoke and ash that swirled around the damaged room. With a fearful glance at him, Sully cleared the air with another quick flick of her hand.

"You has ruined everything in Master Lucius' study," she cried, tearing at her rags in agitated distress. "What has you done?"

 _Something I needed to do a long time ago_ , he wanted to tell her. _Something extraordinary._

He sat down in the only chair left untouched and looked around with enormous satisfaction. Sully dropped at his feet, her fingers gripping his book, and fixed her intense gaze on him, prepared to protect her master at any cost - even if it was from his own madness.

He took in the devastation around him and couldn't help remembering the last conversation he had had with his father in this room five years before. Back then, at sixteen, he had thought himself uncommonly perceptive. But at twenty-one, he knew that had never been the case.

* * *

_First the thunder, then the storm..._  
In A Lifetime - Clannad/Bono

. . . . . . . .

Draco had special permission from Dumbledore to come home for the weekend - a privilege not often given to fifth-year students. He was stretched out in front of a dying fire in his father's study, nose buried in a book on Quidditch strategy. The relaxing warmth and the late hour conspired to make him pleasantly drowsy, and he half-heartedly struggled to focus on the words that seemed to lull him deeper into lethargy.

The sudden guttering and dousing of a nearby candle attracted his eye, and he lifted his head at the disruption. His movement, in turn, caught his father's attention, and the two smiled briefly at each other.

His father turned a page in his own book, then turned his head at an unexpected sound. "It's windy tonight," he said.

Draco, listening for the clattering scrape of branches against the far windows, pushed himself up on his elbows from his sprawled position on the floor. His father's attention had already returned to the heavy, ancient-looking book in front of him. Not long after, Sully appeared and silently replaced the spent candle with a new one, lighting it with a quick jerk of her hand. She disappeared as unobtrusively as she'd arrived.

When he was home from Hogwarts, as he was tonight, he often slipped into the study with his father. His own reading steered to the mundane, but the common activity made him feel a comfortable bond with his father, and he hoped his father felt the same way.

Father had an unusual love of knowledge, and most people who knew him didn't appreciate its depth. Most nights found his father here in the study, researching a single topic from copious stacks of books, jotting methodical notes with the faint scratching of his quill, or engrossed in thought over a single scroll for hours.

As Draco had grown older, Father had talked to him about some of the things he was reading. At first, the topics were innocuous, but as time went on, he had realized that Father was exploring types of magic that were never given attention at Hogwarts. And probably with good reason, he admitted. They were fascinating subjects, but more than a little frightening.

He heard his father murmuring what sounded like a spell of some kind. The language wasn't Latin, though, and again he raised his head curiously.

His father answered the unasked question in his eyes. "Spanish."

Draco rolled over on his side, welcoming the distraction. "What are you reading?" he asked politely.

Lucius shifted slightly in his chair to look at his son. "Iberian curses. Not something you'll ever learn from Flitwick, I'll warrant."

"Not even close. We're stuck on household charms this month," he said with a smirk. "For benefit of the Weasleys, I imagine." He slid his wand from his sleeve, pointed it at his father's empty brandy glass, and muttered a cleaning charm that left the goblet spotless. "So feel free to release the house elves. I'm obviously prepared to cope."

His father smiled in commiseration. "Not enchantments a Malfoy would have need of, I agree. Not that I'd expect you to have need of these Iberian curses, either."

Draco's interest was engaged, as he knew it was meant to be. "Why? What are they?"

"Ah. The Latin temperament...so much more volatile, you know, than ours. This spell, for example. Known in the vernacular as the Jilted Lover's Curse. Not that you have to be a jilted lover to cast it, of course, but it might come to mind in that unfortunate circumstance."

"Really? What does it do?"

"Like the Spanish, it's rather dramatic. It compels the victim to utter verbal abuse at anyone within earshot." His father's eyes scanned the page in front of him. "Lasting from sundown until...exhaustion, I suspect. Repeated daily."

"Verbal abuse doesn't sound too bad, actually," Draco volunteered.

"I wouldn't be so quick to judge that unless you've been at the receiving end of it." Lucius smiled with a ominous gleam that left him nervous, and he nodded at his father to acknowledge his mistake. "Especially when the curse also enriches the victim with some limited ability of Legilimens. Enough, I suspect, to give the curse's victim plenty of ammunition to use against friends. Which should ensure they'll become _former_ friends. And let's see, what else?" His perfectly-manicured fingers traced along the page. "The victim can't be silenced...can't be bound...can't be left alone. And the spell-breaking is delightfully complex and self-sacrificial. They seem to have thought of everything."

"Why do they call it the Jilted Lover's Curse?"

"I suppose because this curse provides the perfect revenge. I can't imagine that any future relationship the victim cares to attempt would survive long under these conditions." At Draco's puzzled expression, he went on. "Let's say that Juan abandons Consuelo. Therefore, Consuelo curses Juan. Juan moves on to Estrella but makes her nights a living hell with abuse. Estrella, of course, is driven away in horror. To be followed by Maria, Carmina - even Pablo, if Juan swings that way, I suppose. The curse makes sure that Juan pays the price for his faithlessness. So simple. But effective."

Draco, with the benefit of sixteen years with no romantic entanglements to his credit, thought it all ridiculously complex. "I don't see the benefit myself. And I'd guess it's an Unforgiveable, too."

His father looked serious for a moment. "The laws differ in other cultures." Draco recognized that his father had slipped into full lecture mode, but the topic, at least, was interesting. He made a small noise of appreciation, and his father nodded and continued. "It's not an Unforgiveable, but it is highly illegal. At least in Spain. It doesn't seem to have gained any popularity here."

"So why would anyone risk it?"

"Ah, Draco, you are forgetting the emotional satisfaction of securing sweet revenge. Sometimes, nothing else comes close to satisfying that craving."

He considered that. Of course, after examining his views on revenge, the first person he thought of was Harry Potter. But that was different. He always wanted his own revenge to be immediate, concrete, and so direct that Potter knew where it had come from and, most significantly, why. This psychological nonsense had none of those qualities, and therefore, no real appeal to him. And he certainly wouldn't brave the punishment for performing an illegal curse to achieve it.

A sudden thought came to him. You-Know-Who would have found a curse like that intriguing. The Dark Lord hadn't feared punishment, and his craving for revenge against Potter was legendary. Just then, he suspected why his father was researching these curses, and he felt a chill settle over him.

Then he wondered exactly what other Dark curses the Spanish had come up with. The discussion suddenly seemed a lot less abstract. A unexpected and restive hammering against the farthest window made by branch tips caught by the wind worsened his jittery mood.

He didn't know what prompted him to ask, "Those other books. Are they about illegal curses, too?" Because he didn't need to hear his father's answer to know that they were.

In Draco's mind, Father's' studies were no longer the innocuous substance of late night reading sessions. With a jolt, he realized that these curses were meant to be used. Against somebody. And perhaps soon.

The look in his father's eye told him that he'd recognized the dangerous association that Draco had just made, but he seemed pleased by the revelation.

"Draco. What do you know about the night Harry Potter disappeared from the third task of the TriWizard Tournament?"

The abrupt change of topic unsettled him. He stumbled over his answer.

"You mean the night Cedric Diggory was killed?" He licked his lips nervously. "Potter says the Dark Lord came back and killed Diggory. The _Daily Prophet_ says he's lying."

That comment triggered a stern look. "What the _Daily Prophet_ says is unimportant."

"Um. Well, some of the students think Potter killed Diggory so he would win the Tournament. Last week, Professor Umbridge punished Potter for what he said about things that happened that night, and now no one is allowed to talk about it at school. Dumbledore believes Potter, but then, he _would._.."

His father's direct stare challenged him, as did his next question. "And what do you think, Draco?"

He wished he had more time to formulate some kind of thoughtful response. "I...I don't know. I don't know what to think." He hoped his father heard his unspoken plea - _tell me what to think_.

Lucius suddenly swung around in his chair so that he was directly facing him. "What I'm about to tell you, son, is for only you to know. For now, I'm asking you not to share this with anyone else." Draco pulled himself up from his slouch, thinking that he should assume a more formal, mature position - one more suited to hearing such an admission. He nodded back with his most serious expression.

"Lord Voldemort is indeed alive. Potter - against his will, I assure you - was instrumental in his resurrection. He is alive and powerful again, as we have hoped for these many years."

Lucius had always been an exceptional storyteller, and tonight's tale only reinforced that fact. The details he supplied as he continued to describe what happened were so graphic, vivid, and shocking that Draco could almost see the graveyard, hear the shouts of the Death Eaters, smell the hot smoke from curses shattering headstones and carving gouges in the turf.

A strange thing happened in his mind's eye during his father's narrative - as Lucius described the scene as he'd witnessed it, Draco changed its perspective so that it was Potter's. He could picture the Gryffindor enmeshed in the web created by the wands, and see the shadowy figures of the dead appear in the dome to support him. So clear was the image his father painted that he felt as though he'd watched how Potter threaded his way through the hexes sent after him, managing to reach Diggory and the portkey and escaping by the skin of his teeth.

As he listened to his father's familiar voice, now charged with an unfamiliar excitement, he tried to absorb the facts. But he found it hard to unravel the snarled emotions the tale evoked in him. Fear was the most obvious - fear so abrupt and strong he could almost smell it in the air around him like smoke - but why should this news cause such fear in him? Shouldn't he be pleased? Didn't purebloods want the Dark Lord to return and take up their cause? Didn't he want his father to resume his rightful place beside their leader, to bring more prestige on the Malfoy name, and to carry Draco with him to higher respect? _Tell me what to think_ , he'd silently begged, but no one had told him what to _feel_.

And what he felt most strongly was dread.

* * *

_Pai, afasta de mim este calice, de vinho tinto de sangue_  
[Father, take this chalice from me, of wine tinted with blood]  
Calice - Gilberto Gil/Chico Buarque (Portuguese lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

For Draco, the discussion in his father's study marked the beginning of an intense internal debate. Because even at sixteen, he knew, with utter conviction, that his father's vision was never going to succeed. Believing that, he knew he couldn't march blindly to await the defeat he saw ahead, clearer than any prophecy. Because he _knew_ Potter, and he _knew_ Dumbledore, and his father didn't.

He was observant enough to sense the changes coming to the wizarding world. Holier-than-thou Gryffindors uttered not-so-veiled warnings to each other as he passed them in the corridors. The _Daily Prophet_ hinted at events - although what they didn't print was undoubtedly even more revealing. Father's visitors murmured their tidings in the halls of Malfoy Manor; snippets of conversation that were cut off by closing doors but that revealed just enough to give him an anxious flutter.

Draco had a fault common to most sixteen year olds: he assumed that what he knew and believed were what those closest to him knew and believed, too. But he failed to see that his life at Hogwarts gave him first-hand opportunity to observe the doings of the Dark Lord's opposition. He lived, after all, in the very heart of Dumbledore's realm, and very much under his influence. With that perspective, he had a hard time grasping why the Dark Lord kept making the same reckless mistakes when it came to Harry Potter. Maybe tasting defeat at the other boy's hands so frequently had made it ordinary for Draco, but he'd mistakenly thought the harsh knowledge of such defeat commonplace.

Several days after their talk in the study, his father arrived one afternoon at Hogwarts to watch a Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch exhibition match - Draco refused to call it a _friendly_ , as everyone else did. Thoughts of their recent conversation about You-Know-Who weighed heavily on him, making him feel strangely uncomfortable with his father. He hadn't been able to resolve any of his fear and dread about the subject - if anything, his mood had grown darker and his fears worse. All afternoon, he'd struggled to feign a show of normalcy; he hoped any nervousness he was unable to suppress would be written off to pre-game nerves.

The early autumn day was glorious - uncharacteristically warm, with an occasional burst of sun slipping from behind gentle clouds. The two of them had spent some time after lunch following the well-traveled path around the lake.

"Gryffindor's Beaters look smaller this year," Lucius said, as he controlled their steady pace along the footpath.

"That's because Slytherin's are bigger," Draco replied.

Lucius smiled. "Nothing ever changes, then." He seemed to be in a reminiscing mood. "Slytherin always has a deep field to choose from for strength."

More small talk was offered and returned regarding teams, conditions, and strategies, which Draco participated in but only partially heard.

As the hour grew late, Draco urged them back to the Quidditch pitch, choosing to lead them along a little-used trail leading up the slope. The path was too narrow for two to walk abreast, so he allowed his father most of the path. He made his way beside him through the late season grasses, already brittle and dry, that made a sibilant sound against his robes and resisted his progress.

"Have you heard any more talk about Potter? Or the Dark Lord?" His father's words sounded slightly breathless from their climb.

"Not really. Everyone's been worked up about this game, really."

"Ah. The first Quidditch match of the school year. I remember the excitement. Everyone is out to impress each other - and especially the first years - with how much they know about Quidditch. But then they open their mouths and destroy any illusion of insight."

Draco gave an appreciative snort but didn't reply.

"I know you're intelligent, Draco. You've worked out that things are on the move now. You must realize that any information that you discover at Hogwarts that can help our cause would not go unnoticed - or unrewarded."

He struggled to maintain his neutral demeanor, but the unexpected suggestion that he report on the people at Hogwarts, so casually dropped into their conversation, alarmed him more than their discussion in the study had. He kept his head bent, kicking at the ground as he walked.

"I'm not sure I'm in a position to hear much that's any use to anyone," he answered carefully. "It's mostly all about who's snogging who, or who's cheating in Herbology, or when the next trip to Hogsmeade will be. You know what school talk is like."

"I wouldn't expect you to realize the value of things you hear, son. That's for others to determine. But you are in a unique place to observe and listen."

"I thought Professor Snape-"

"His loyalty is in question these days. It would be wise not to trust him."

Draco allowed himself to focus on the steep part of the climb, paying close attention to his footing. His father seemed to take his silence for acquiescence.

"Clever as you are, I'm sure you can come up with ways to find yourself in places with people who might let the wrong information slip."

With growing alarm, he realized that he was being directed to become an active spy for the Death Eaters. His new companions of fear and dread made a sudden reappearance, and his stomach clenched. He needed to answer, to say something; his father was expecting a response.

"I...." He couldn't think of what to say. "I'm surprised." Well, that was true, if inadequate.

Lucius had slowed and turned around to study his son's demeanor. Seemingly satisfied that surprise was somehow a passable answer, he turned back to the path and continued climbing.

"Your friend Crabbe's father has been talking about sending Vincent to Durmstrang next year. I gather his wife is pressuring him to keep their son safe." He said the word as if it were a curse. "What about you, Draco? Do you have any interest in following Vincent to Durmstrang?"

"Of course not."

"Good. I do not condone the Crabbes' cowardice. Someone once wrote that the hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in a time of great crisis, maintain their neutrality."

Draco, adept at interpreting his father's veiled language, translated that as _you are expected to join the Death Eaters when you are called_.

He kept his answer carefully abstract. "Slytherin won't be the same without Crabbe."

Lucius lightly rested a hand on Draco's neck for a moment as a reward for his apparent acquiescence. "I've come across a new book on Turkish curses," he said by way of changing the subject, but Draco was no longer listening. Right now, he just wanted to get himself to the locker room, maybe to shut himself off in a dark cubicle there, at least until the universe righted itself again. Blindly, he thrust his legs through the long grass beside the path. With each step he took, he noticed that countless leafhoppers, disturbed by the sudden intrusion, were springing away by the dozens. What must it be like, he thought suddenly, to be so unaware of what was about to happen, maybe quietly munching on a tasty leaf and thinking about not much of anything. When suddenly, wham! The world you knew was gone, and you didn't have the brains to work out what had happened.

Just like the unsuspecting residents of Hogwarts.

Still, had he honestly expected things to continue here as they always had? As dusty and unchanging, perhaps, as Binns? Why had he believed - why did they all seem to expect - that You-Know-Who was politely waiting until Potter finished his seventh year NEWTS before he made his move?

The hammer could fall any day now. And at Hogwarts - with Dumbledore and Potter here - he would find himself in the center of nasty events in a big hurry. In the middle of a war where he'd be discovered spying for the wrong side.

They were approaching the Quidditch pitch. The Slytherin and Gryffindor team members were converging on the locker rooms to dress for the game. His father was planning to observe from the Slytherin stands.

He noticed Harry Potter, alone, to their right. Potter's usual distracted look was his only expression. He'd not noticed either Malfoy, but Lucius had observed him, and Draco could feel him bristle beside him. He looked at his father carefully, betraying no emotion, saying nothing.

"Oh, look. The savior of the wizarding world," Lucius breathed. "Without his adoring sycophants, it would seem."

To his surprise, he noticed that his father was surreptitiously guiding his wand, hidden in the folds of his sleeve, towards the Gryffindor Seeker. He clutched frantically at his father's arm.

"What are you doing?" he sputtered. "They'll check him for spells before the game." He knew his father was well aware of the precautions taken on behalf of the players before any match. Hell, his father had _played_ Quidditch here - the routine was the same; nothing had changed.

"Defending the Boy-Who-Lived, Draco? I didn't know you were so concerned," his father answered carelessly.

Hearing the dangerous undercurrent only partially disguised in the words, Draco knew that his answer should be circumspect. He forced his fists to relax.

"No, I don't care about him. But I care about our team. I'd hate to forfeit."

"That would presume discovery, however. Something that I wholly intend to avoid." Lucius turned his attention fully to his son. "But perhaps you've lost confidence in me?"

"No, of course not, Father," was his automatic response. He didn't have an honest answer to give.

"Thank you for that, then," his father coolly replied. He then spoke the words to the spell Draco had heard at their last meeting, letting the Spanish phrases trip off his tongue as though he were a native.

The Jilted Lover's Curse? He was even more shocked than his initial response. How the hell did his father expect no one to notice that? _Shit!_ This wasn't some nondescript Hufflepuff in wand's range. This was _Potter_ , the golden boy, Dumbledore's pet.

His horrified expression seemed only to amuse his father. "Calm yourself, Draco," he chided. "Nothing will happen. Yet." He continued his spell, this time reverting to Latin. Draco recognized a concealment spell, then something unfamiliar. "There. Hidden. And I've put a time trigger on it, to allow it to take effect at a more convenient time for the Malfoy family. At my death."

Confusion stormed through Draco. "But...why?"

Father and son were stopped in the path, ignoring Potter, who was walking away, innocent of what had just happened. The whole scene had taken on an air of unreality in Draco's racing mind. The expression on his father's face at that moment struck him as frighteningly intimate and so familiar - full of confidence, arrogance, self-possession - in so many ways typifying the unwritten Malfoy code.

"Why? Well, Draco, I suppose it's because I wanted to." He said it almost casually, as if he spoke of something as meaningless as his preference in wines, or cloaks, or music. Then Lucius' voice dropped and he almost whispered the next words, as though he were confiding a dark secret. "Because I _can_."

* * *

_"Because I can."_ Never had words chilled Draco so thoroughly.

Coming as they did, as a dismissal of a Dark curse cast so indifferently against another student, they shook his perception of his father to his core.

Not that he particularly cared about Potter. Not really. Potter was an irritant, a threat, an unresolved and unresolvable problem. He was unmoved by anything affecting him.

But he recognized immediately that his father's attitude could also be applied to the rest of his conversation - the cavalier suggestion, which he knew at once was a poorly concealed command - that Draco begin service as a spy for the Dark Lord. He'd been ordered to put himself on the front line. Compelled. But never asked.

_"Because I can."_

The vision of his future as a trusted ally of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wasn't any great revelation. Not at all. Given his position as Lucius' son, as natural leader of his Slytherin classmates, it was all but assumed. Even the most obtuse Hufflepuff could have guessed the direction his life would take.

No, the concept wasn't a surprise. It was - what? He found himself dwelling on the issue for restless hours after the Quidditch game. Amazingly, he'd actually managed to beat Potter to the Snitch, and he was annoyed that it had only been an exhibition game and wouldn't count towards the Quidditch Cup. He chalked his victory up to luck; his mind certainly hadn't been focused on the game. But Potter had seemed even more distracted than Draco had been.

He was grateful for the win, because he couldn't have dealt with his father after a defeat. He managed to fake his pleasure at the game's outcome, acknowledged the praise from his teammates - _good going, Malfoy, knew you could beat him_ \- pretended interest through the post-game festivities, and received his father's congratulations and promise of a new broom to celebrate his victory. A well-earned reward, generously bestowed.

_"Because I can."_

That night in the common room, he sat in self-imposed isolation. His fellow Slytherins knew better than to bother him - ' _Draco's in one of his moods_ ,' they warned each other - and he let them believe it, because it suited his purpose. Goyle, as usual, set himself up as a personal guard, ready to intercept any disturbance, although after all this time it wasn't necessary.

But it was more than a mood, any passing irritation at life's iniquities, that sent him off into his own contemplations tonight. He was deep in unsettled thought. He had an ingrained habit of searching for hidden motivations of everyone around him - he was always formulating, deliberating, judging.

Tonight, he was aware that his assessments were more pivotal than they'd ever been.

Sacrifice. The more he worried over the events of the day, the more it came down to that one word. Now that _someday_ had become _today_ , could he sacrifice his future to the Dark Lord? And if he didn't, what then?

Was he really expected to become no more than a tool in his father's hands? Used for whatever purpose he decided, with little regard to Draco's own desires? _Because I can?_

When had his father crossed that line? When had his father stopped looking at him as who he was and begun to see him only for what he could do for his cause?

The look on his father's face that afternoon had told him, with stunning clarity, that the line had been crossed long ago. Draco, somehow not paying attention, somewhere lost in his own pastimes, preoccupied in Quidditch and studies and boyish pranks, had failed to notice it.

But now he realized that the sacrifice that his father proposed for him - a sacrifice that was demanded, pressured, coerced - wasn't a concession he was at all willing to make. Hidden deep within him, unexamined until their conversation abruptly forced him to address it, was a strong feeling that the destiny his father planned and the Dark Lord demanded without question - this unwilling sacrifice - was nothing more than a kind of treachery. He felt betrayed. And he was beginning to think that the basic difference between good and evil came down to this simple truth: those who embraced darkness sacrificed others. Those who did not, sacrificed only themselves.

Draco knew at that instant what he had to do. And why.

_Because I can._

* * *

_We never feel the power of our own hand, sense the danger late,_  
and only vaguely ever grasp the means of our sole salvation.  
Sole Salvation - English Beat

. . . . . . . .

And so Draco's new life began.

Driven initially by fear, sustained by a deep desire not to become an unwilling sacrifice, governed by Snape's tutelage, under his demanding yet vigilant wing, Draco learned how to spy.

Eventually.

That night, slipping out of the common room under a thin excuse, he sought out Professor Snape. He suspected that the Head of Slytherin house would understand his reasons. And after all, a Head of house should offer guidance to the students under his care. He had never needed that kind of help before; now he felt as though his life depended on it.

Rumors had swirled around Slytherin House for years about Snape's undeclared loyalties. Of course, there was the Dark Mark as evidence of - well, really, of what? All it proved was that at one time, Snape had accepted the Dark Lord; well, so had Draco. He realized it said nothing about his professor's current loyalties.

Dumbledore continued to permit him to teach here at Hogwarts. Even the simplest first year could work out that if Snape were an active Death Eater, he'd have been given the boot long ago. So his very presence at the school was evidence - again, of what? That Dumbledore believed him to be neutral at the very minimum, and more likely a supporter.

He strongly suspected that Snape was a double agent. His father had suggested as much today. But only Snape - not Dumbledore and not the Dark Lord - could ever say for certain who held his underlying allegiance. Loyalty was not so black and white; maybe that delicate question was never truly answered with any certainty.

But he had to take a chance that Snape could be trusted. If he was wrong - well, he didn't want to think about that yet. But over the years, he thought he sensed a kindred spirit in Snape - someone who, like him, thought things over at great length and never blindly followed the expectations of others.

He threw the weight of his hopes behind that perception as he knocked on Snape's door.

"Mr. Malfoy," came the solemn greeting. Snape showed no surprise at the late interruption.

"Professor Snape. I need to talk to you. It's important."

Snape opened his door wide in invitation. Draco followed him into the dimly lit room, hearing the murmured words of a locking and then a silencing spell. It did nothing to calm his nerves.

"Please, sit."

He did. Now that he was here, though, his courage began failing him. What he had convinced himself of, in the abstract world of his own thoughts, was immensely harder to face in reality.

Snape noticed his unusual silence and moved to a small sideboard, pulling out two glasses and a bottle of something that Draco registered as whisky. He sank back further in his chair and let his gaze travel over the room - he'd been here before, but not often, and it always surprised him how unlike the potions lab this place was. Almost comfortable. Snape pressed a welcomed glass into his hand, and he took a grateful sip. Not as good as what was served at the Manor, naturally, but not bad.

"Congratulations on your win, today," Snape said. "Most fortunate, with your father in attendance."

He wasn't surprised that Snape made the connection between his father's appearance at Hogwarts this afternoon and his visit here tonight. By mentioning it now, obliquely, Snape was giving him tacit permission to speak about not only his father, but other related things.

And so he began.

Delicately, tentatively, he probed at the edges of his subject. What did Snape think were the prospects for immediate war? Where and how would he suppose the Dark Lord might begin? What would the students and staff do in response? He kept to the subject as passively as if they were discussing the benefits and detriments of today's Quidditch strategies, and Snape matched his tone and replied dispassionately.

With growing confidence, he began to touch on some of his more insistent questions. Who would be expected to join the Death Eaters? Was their cause really valid enough to justify the high cost of unquestioned loyalty it demanded? What were the Dark Lord's true chances for success?

Snape answered with the same abstract words he had kept to earlier, but then abruptly asked, "And what do you think, Draco?"

Hearing that question released some hidden lock inside him, and he began voicing his current fears. Everything he'd been dwelling on, all his doubts, his feelings of betrayal - he poured them out, still fearing Snape's reaction but ultimately relieved and grateful at having someone to share his burden.

Snape listened carefully, interjecting questions at times, but content to let Draco talk.

"Why did you come to me about these things?" he finally asked.

Draco looked at him directly. "I think you're spying for Dumbledore. That you aren't a Death Eater. I thought you could - well, I want to do that, too." There. It was finally out. Not eloquent, to be sure, but clear enough even for Snape.

"You want to spy on the Death Eaters?" he repeated with evident surprise.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Good question, thought Draco. "In my position, I think I could be useful," he answered.

"But you don't have to. I can understand not wanting to join the Death Eaters. But you could sit out the war; you don't have to go against your father. Stay neutral."

"No." He wondered why he felt the need to be so honest with Snape. Apparently, the whisky was loosening his tongue. "Neutrality won't save me from them; I know they'd come after me even for that. If I don't join them, the only way I can be sure of staying alive is to make sure they don't win."

Snape smiled at that. "Ah. A Slytherin answer. Enlightened self-interest."

"Maybe. There's more to it than that. I don't think I can explain it all. But I've given it enough thought to know this is what I want." He paused to concentrate on making his arguments persuasive. "I want to decide my own fate. I won't be anyone's tool. Not even Father's."

"No, I couldn't see _you_ surrendering like that," Snape answered with a thoughtful expression. "But what you're proposing to take on is dangerous."

"I know. I plan to keep my head down as much as possible."

"So you're not out to fashion yourself an exotic persona? Perhaps live out some boyish fantasy of the secret life of a spy? You don't yearn to be admired by your compatriots and adored by women who throw themselves at your feet?"

"No. I don't even like women. I prefer men," he said nonchalantly. His eyes widened at what he'd just admitted, and he choked out, "You-. The whisky. You gave me Veritaserum!"

"Of course I did." Snape continued to stare at him solemnly, steepling his long fingers calmly before adding, "This is no mere game you're asking me to play, Draco. I have to know how serious you are. The most obvious reason for you to come to me would be to entrap me for your father. You should have known that."

Draco sighed, leaning back into the chair. "You're right."

"You do realize that a perfectly truthful person would never have recognized the Veritaserum." Snape gave another little smile, his voice relaxed with it. "But, in your favor, you only felt the need to lie about something unrelated to our conversation."

He felt a wave of alarm at knowing what he'd confessed, a fear that his admission would become a weapon used against him. "I've never told anyone about that. No one knows. I-"

Snape interrupted. "Then I apologize for the unwanted admission you had to make. It will go no further." He looked at his student meaningfully. "Although I can't say it comes as any great surprise to me."

He could feel the heat rise in his face. "What do you mean?"

"One of the most useful tools of a spy, Draco, is careful observation. With practice, you will learn that most people reveal much more about themselves than they are ever aware of. An alert eye will notice everything." Draco looked away in embarrassment - had he really been that obvious? "But we won't speak of it again."

"Thank you," he said in a low voice.

Snape grew more serious. "You are sincere about rejecting the Death Eaters?"

"Yes." Now that he was aware of the potion, he noticed how compelled he felt to answer Snape's question.

"You want to become a spy for those working against the Death Eaters?"

"Yes."

"And you came to me because you think I am doing the same?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand the risk you take by coming here and telling me these things?"

Draco tensed. "Yes."

"Did you tell anyone else you were coming here tonight? Your father, perhaps?"

"No. No one."

"Have you spoken to anyone else of your desires to spy against the Death Eaters?"

"No."

"Why did you not go directly to the headmaster and offer him your services?"

"Because I don't trust him. He's never been a friend to Slytherins. He's only concerned with Potter."

Snape looked at him carefully. "Are you jealous of Potter?"

An automatic answer didn't immediately form in his mind, and he was at a loss of how to answer. "I...I don't know. Sometimes I'm jealous of how easily things come to him. Like getting on the Quidditch team his first year. Getting chosen for the TriWizard Tournament. Winning the house cup nearly every year. But then, I suspect there's more to his life, somehow, that no one sees. Something I'm missing. All the rumors-"

"What rumors, Draco?"

He knew Snape was testing him - his teacher knew far more than he did about Potter, he was certain. "Well, about his relatives, for one. They say he was brought up treated like a house-elf. Living in a closet. He shows up at Hogwarts every year in old clothes that are far too big for him. I don't know if any of it's true...."

"It's true," Snape replied.

Draco's head snapped up at the terse answer, but Snape didn't elaborate. "And all the times he supposedly foiled the Dark Lord - just about every year since he's been here. The things they write about him in the _Daily Prophet_. Of course, he's their little pet, so I can't believe most of it...."

"Believe it."

He was confused. "Still, why are we talking about him - I mean, what does Potter have to do with anything I'm telling you?"

Snape patiently explained. "Potter is crucial to Dumbledore's plans. As such, protecting him is one of our highest priorities. Tell me, Draco, do you hate him?"

"No." He was surprised by how quickly the answer came to him. "I think he's an irritating git, too full of himself, pampered and spoilt, cocky-"

Snape gave a low chuckle. "I understand. Not your favorite person."

"No, sir. I don't need Veritaserum to tell you that."

"Well, I can't say I disagree with your assessment. Still, I need to know - could you work with him if you had to? Protect him if we asked you to?"

"I think so. If you asked me to." He knew he meant Snape when he said "you", but he hoped that his professor wouldn't question him too closely on it. The idea of being loyal to some larger group, with people he didn't particularly respect, was still too new. At least at first, he would have to rely on his personal loyalty to Snape. He pushed on with his plea. "Professor, I think you understand me. You're a Slytherin. And you know what my father is like." He paused, then added, "I think you can teach me what I need to know. I'd like you to."

Snape made no reply, but continued an intense scrutiny of his student.

"Please, sir."

Snape was staring so intently at him that Draco felt that he was almost trying to read his mind. He wanted badly to look away, but he didn't want to appear weak or hesitant about this decision. All his plans hinged on Snape's acceptance. The silence dragged out beyond measure.

Finally, Snape replied. "Very well. We will have to tell the headmaster, of course, but we will inform no one else unless we have to."

Draco nodded, feeling relief bubbling through him, bringing the first stirring of reassurance he'd felt in a long time. "I do have one favor to ask you."

"Already?" Snape said, but he seemed more amused than annoyed. "What is that?"

"I would like to propose a toast to our new association. But before we do that, could you pour me a new glass of whisky?"

* * *

To his surprise, Severus Snape found growing satisfaction in his new relationship with Draco. Their previous pattern of favorite teacher and pampered student allowed them to safely disguise the changes occurring in their day-to-day contact. In public, he encouraged the other students to believe that Draco was preparing someday to follow in his footsteps and become a Potions master, and this provided a perfect cover for the long evenings they spent together.

People being what they were - in short, gossiping busybodies - unsavory rumors were occasionally whispered about their growing connection. He knew that Draco, who was far more sensitive about the subject, privately seethed at the twisted innuendoes. Snape ignored them, but nonetheless, he was careful in public to maintain a prudent distance from Draco.

"Don't let it distract you, Draco," he counseled one evening. "But do pay attention to those doing most of the talking - there may be a reason behind it that turns out to be important."

"I know. But it's hard sometimes. I just want to snap their bloody necks, you know? They're so stupid."

"And you never gossiped?" He looked at his student in mock apprehension. "I'm sure you've grown far beyond such childish behaviors now, but perhaps when you were younger?"

Draco laughed at his teasing. "Never. As you know, I am the embodiment of decency and sincerity."

"Of course. I never doubted it for a minute."

He regarded the young man sprawled across his sofa, bared feet perched casually on its arm, warmed in the reflected heat of the fire. So young. Too young. Snape, while teaching him all that would be useful as a spy in the Dark Lord's lair, nevertheless counted on the hope that matters would never go so far. That the growing conflict would be resolved without Draco's participation. One reason he'd accepted Draco's proposition in the first place was to keep him safe from Lucius and his sinister plans. If Harry Potter could rely once again on his astounding blind luck and manage to fulfill his destiny quickly, Draco could be kept well out of things, safe. A disturbing thought came to him at that moment - if he were forced to chose between protecting Potter or Draco, would he put Potter first, as he must?

Draco must have been thinking about his future as well, because he asked, "When am I ever going to get an assignment from the almighty Order? Doesn't Dumbledore trust me?" The gleam from the fire reflected in the young man's face, making him appear to glow in anticipation.

"Don't be in too much in a hurry to leave your training, Draco."

"But I haven't done anything useful yet."

"On the contrary. You have continued to behave as you always have, deliberately allowing everyone to believe that you will be a loyal and dedicated servant of the Dark Lord when you are finally asked."

"And?"

"And building a convincing cover is the most important thing you will ever do as a spy. It's also the hardest thing to do, and often the most overlooked - but you will find it critical to any hope of your success."

* * *

**Chapter 2**

_It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities._  
J.K. Rowling

. . . . . . . .

Professor Snape heard the first of the fifth-year Potions students begin to collect outside his dungeon door. Not one of them was ever eager to enter early; they tended to throng outside, postponing the eventual and chatting among themselves until they would finally break free in a mass and file in.

"Smith, what're you doing here?" the unmistakable voice of Seamus Finnigan hooted outside the door. "Blow up your potion, did you? Or just wanted to see how Gryffindors do it?"

"No, wasn't me. We chained yesterday."

Chaining was Hogwarts slang, from even before Snape's student days, for setting off a reaction of potion explosions. Some mixtures were fairly sensitive, and setting a reaction off through carelessness sometimes triggered cauldrons nearby, ruining them all. When that happened, those affected would have to repeat their work with the next class to meet - so today some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws would be joining the Slytherins and Gryffindors.

"Who did it?" Finnigan asked him, still loitering outside the open door.

"Terry Boot."

"How big?"

"Thirteen of us," Smith answered, and he laughed. "And we're all going to Hogsmeade tonight, so I hope he's saved his Sickles." Tradition held that the chain instigator would buy a round of Butterbeers for their victims to make up to them for the extra class time.

"Thirteen - man! Class is going to be full today."

He heard a new voice chime in. "I can't believe we're even here at all." That was Dean Thomas.

"No shit," Smith replied, marginally lowering his voice.

Finnigan also attempted to speak quietly, but missed the mark by a wide margin. "Trust that wanker Snape to make us show up for Potions after our OWLs. It's so sodding unfair. Dumbledore shouldn't let him get away with it."

"Yeah, no one else would even think to hold classes after OWLs are finished," Smith said. "And there's a good reason for that."

Finnigan affected a whiny tone that Snape realized was a dreadful imitation of his own voice. "'I will not have you fifth-year students roaming the halls interrupting the other students. I presume you are here at Hogwarts to learn. If you are only here to worry over a trivial mark on an exam, you may want to reconsider your education.'"

Laughter followed his mocking speech.

Thomas managed to keep his voice low, but Snape could still hear him clearly. "You didn't have to come, Seamus. Snape said anyone who was sure he flunked his Potions OWL would be excused." More laughter.

A snort, then Seamus said, "Yeah, yeah. Who'll admit to that? I notice you're here."

Smith added, "He'll take away house points if anyone's missing. You know he will."

Snape smiled. He was never without a workable threat to use on them.

Some undefined critical mass had built up in the hall, and the students drifted into the room under his impassive watch.

Few choices were available to his Potions students. They wore nearly the same school robes, carried the same drab book bags, and bore the same reserved and cautious expressions. As they settled into seats, they extracted identical books, pens, and ink bottles. In front of them, they placed a wand not of their choosing, for the wand chose the wizard. Obviously, the students didn't choose to be here today, and he knew they wouldn't have chosen him as its teacher - most of them despised him. By fifth year, they had learned the hard way that freedom of choice was best left to other subjects. Creating potions was an exacting matter, and straying from directions invariably led to calamity. So although no student in this room was aware of it, in other areas he intentionally allowed his students as much freedom of choice as he could.

If information conferred power, then Snape was a powerful man. He was a careful observer with a meticulous memory. Under his watchful eye, the most trivial choice was analyzed and fitted into the mental dossier he gathered on everyone who crossed his path. If he'd been a generous man, he might have shared his discoveries with his subjects - but he was not a generous man.

Still, he gave his students what choices he could, and watched.

He didn't assign seats, so where they chose to sit gave him some meager information. Those in the double class of Slytherin and Gryffindor weren't required to sit apart but had opted to early in their first month. It looked as though he'd carefully parted them with a comb.

Of course, by fifth year the students had such a rigid system that to sit in someone else's usual spot was as alarming as trying to usurp their bed. Some of them sat far in the back from their first day at Hogwarts - like Draco and his friends Crabbe and Goyle. This week's gossip - that Draco's father now called Azkaban home - had isolated them, and the class flatly avoided seats near them.

He saw with mild satisfaction that nearly all the seats were filled. Unlike most other Hogwarts teachers, he embraced the philosophy that it was better to be feared than loved.

"It was good of you to join me today for class. Apparently, some of you are still under the delusion that you passed your Potions OWL-" he deliberately focused attention on Longbottom, who was finding his quill unusually absorbing at the moment - "but you will be disabused of that notion soon enough."

He strode over to loom behind Finnigan's seat. "I know that some of you question the need to bother with classes today. You expect that I am under some obligation - perhaps imposed from the headmaster, hmm? - to permit you to wander the school aimlessly all week to do whatever you please. I assure you, in this you are mistaken."

He proceeded to Smith's table, and let his long fingers trail over the back of his chair. "You may wish to waste your time at Hogsmeade. However, I believe your time is better spent in learning. Silly of me, I know, but I was led to believe that is why you are at this school in the first place."

He moved to the empty table usually occupied by Granger and Weasley. "But I see that not everyone agrees. Ten points from each house for missing classmates."

He noted with satisfaction the shock on nearby faces.

"But Hermione and Ron are still in the hospital wing," Thomas muttered.

"Yes. I am aware of that. I am also aware that their injuries are due to their own hotheaded folly in leaving the school grounds without permission. They must deal with the consequences. Unless, perhaps, those rules do not apply to a favored few?" That earned him a glare from Finnigan, but no one dared speak up to challenge him. And Potter steadfastly refused to look up. Wallowing in guilt, no doubt.

Over the years, he'd watched tables adjoining Potter's empty and fill with the fall and rise of his popularity, when other students feared him, resented him, or ignored him. Today, the nearby tables were filled, which hadn't been the case for the better part of this year. But the public redemption of Potter two days ago had swayed his classmates in his favor once again. Judging from the abundant owls that had crowded Potter's table this morning, making a mess of breakfast in the Great Hall and bearing hastily scribbled goodwill messages from _Daily Prophet_ readers, they were not alone.

"Today's lesson is on the board," he began. "This potion is intricate, so you will want to pay closer attention than is your usual low norm." That statement was anticlimactic. Today's extra students spoke to their risk of failure on a grand scale. He saw Terry Boot, yesterday's triggerman, look away nervously from his self-imposed exile at the far edge of the room.

"Ingredients are listed. Wasting them will detract from your mark." He placed the first ingredient, powdered pearl, directly in front of him. All valuable ingredients were handled this way to discourage the more entrepreneurial students. Sitting down, he gathered a bundle of scrolls toward him, and stifled a growl at the annoying sound of chairs scraping along the stone floor as the students stood up.

Lisa Turpin, as always, remained seated until she finally noticed the changed rhythm in the room. "Waiting for a personal invitation?" he asked her brusquely, and was gratified at her flustered start. Anxiously, she scooped powdered pearl into her vessel with obsessive precision, then she shifted to the far end of his desk to the tray that held the slugs.

Living slugs were not a particularly unusual ingredient in potions. Snape's approach to them was. Although he was not a generous man, he always provided far more than the class needed. The tray on which they lay, sedately waiting a fate far beyond their grasp, was also generous - several students at once could stand in front of it. None of the students fully appreciated the choice he'd contrived for them. While they were well aware of his attention as they poured and scraped pearl powder, they were equally unaware of him as he watched their hands at the tray nearby.

After years of observing, he could predict their choices in slugs almost as easily as their choices in seats. Weasley, for example, would always come up early, make a lightening-fast assessment, then snap up the biggest slug as if he feared that someone else was about to take them all and leave him without. Well, he was from a big family of small resources - his choice was too easy to decipher.

Granger, on the other hand, would select hers with excruciating care as if she was choosing a life partner. Whatever virtues made for slug perfection, Granger identified and weighed them. She would not be hurried, and her classmates had long ago stopped trying.

Thomas and Finnigan, best friends since their first week, strolled up to the tray together, talking easily, oblivious to his scrutiny. He didn't bother to turn his head - he didn't need to. He could see their hands at the tray, and after five years, he knew each pair of hands well. Finnigan, who was almost never still, always chose a moving slug. Thomas preferred his already dead. They made their choices and retreated to their desk, now including the slugs in their sociable conversation.

Ernie MacMillan and Padma Patil, best friends since last week, followed. He watched the boy pick up a large specimen and make a teasing attempt to drop it down her collar. She laughed nervously, a little too long and too breathily, and his hand backed away. She made a tentative attempt to lift one slug, although she'd never been squeamish before, and her admirer gallantly retrieved it for her and marched away, holding the two slugs ahead of him by the scruffs of their necks.

"Hurry up," he heard Crabbe mutter to the girl ahead of him, who was trying to lift a small slug using a scrap of paper. After five years, most of them didn't mind touching slugs barehanded, but several still resisted the slimy feel. Snape's generosity didn't extend to tongs.

"Just a minute,"she snapped back without looking up. Successful at last, she moved away, balancing the slug delicately on the paper.

Crabbe chose the slug farthest away from Snape, as if a closer approach was dangerous. Well, maybe for Crabbe, it was.

Goyle, next in line, was also a grab-and-go, never looking at the tray but watching Snape as warily as a shoplifter watches a detective.

Draco lingered until a Gryffindor student nervously came to stand beside him, then he targeted the slug that the hand next to his had dared to approach. He snatched it away nimbly using reflexes honed by Quidditch, and strode off with a victorious gleam, as if the slug were an elusive Snitch.

Over the years, he'd watched countless hands interact at the tray, alert to small movements sending stealthy messages between those who stood there. He noted their little gestures of camaraderie, aggressive actions carrying warnings, tentative touches like the soft flutter of birds' wings that signaled interest. He never let on that he saw the messages, but kept silent as he watched the wordless hands speak.

Potter finally headed toward the front of the room. He seemed to be somewhere else entirely: he heard little and said less. He stopped at the powdered pearl and began to measure without looking up. Snape watched Potter's hands steady the bottle and replace it on the desk, and he caught sight of the faint white scars, curving and coiling, that were carved into the otherwise smooth skin on the back of the boy's right hand. He'd discovered the newest addition to Potter's notorious scar collection a few months ago during one of their fruitless Occlumency sessions. When he had first seen the inscribed words, _I will not tell lies_ , and saw their dark creation in the boy's memory, he was sickened. Potter had never told anyone in the Order, of course, probably imagining his secrecy was somehow brave and strong. The Gryffindor way of dealing with it. Snape thought it far more masochistic.

Then, just when he thought that the interaction at his desk would be uneventful, Potter looked up at him. The fierce stare that accosted him was so full of hatred that he unconsciously pulled away from it. It took all his will to choke back the words he wanted to shout as he realized that Potter blamed him - _him_ \- for the fiasco of a few nights ago and expected him to play the villain in this drama. Instead, he held the hostile gaze and returned nothing but contempt until Potter broke away and headed for the slugs.

Shaken, Snape kept his anger under control and his attention hidden.

Potter was notably fickle. If he had a favorite choice, Snape was unaware of it: he chose large slugs, small slugs, the quick and the dead. He didn't grab and run like Goyle, but he didn't agonize like Granger. As far as he could tell, Potter was waiting for a signal from that famous telepathic scar of his. He was frozen at the tray of slugs, his mind once again far away, until another student maneuvering beside him jostled him back to reality. Neither student acknowledged the other, but Snape hadn't expected them to. He watched with forced indifference as two pairs of hands began circling.

 _Just take one this time and get the hell away from me_ , Snape thought, as the delay became irritating. He was no longer in the mood for these petty games of observation. What difference could it make anymore? After this week's revelations, it was clear that everyone in the wizarding world faced far more serious choices - between Dumbledore or the Dark Lord, good or evil, life or death. Only those choices mattered now. These students were only a little younger than he'd been during the last war against the Dark Lord. He knew, and they didn't, what horrors they all faced.

Then he saw out of the corner of his eye, at the far end of the desk, those two pairs of hands moving. He saw the careful brush of skin against skin, a message sent and received that said, clearly and unmistakably, _I've noticed you. I'm interested_.

He was astonished, but not as much as Potter was. Harry's hand jumped back as if the slugs had transformed into snakes, then he seemed to recover enough to grab one before he fled.

 _Well_. Apparently, even small and unimportant choices disclosed in Potions class still had some consequence. But even though he knew the who and when, he, as usual, couldn't begin to understand why.

Near the end of class, Crabbe's potion suddenly exploded and everyone in the room watched helplessly as, one by one, cauldron after cauldron followed until none was left untouched. In some strange way, he had expected it all along.

* * *

The next day, Snape watched the same students trudge back into Potions class, this time with the addition of Granger and Weasley, who'd been released from the hospital wing. The chain set off by Crabbe during the last class had set a new Hogwarts record. Overheard conversation told him that no one was happy about repeating the difficult potion, especially since Crabbe had never embraced the Butterbeer tradition at Hogsmeade. It was too late for that, anyway: term ended in two days.

Since being reunited, Granger and Weasley had doggedly shadowed Potter as though he was some Muggle film star bothered by persistent fans. At the moment, however, he saw that Potter's watchdogs were absorbed in a rambling dispute, bickering in their annoying way like a married couple, and Potter slipped away alone. While Potter spooned powdered pearl, Snape deliberately kept his eyes fixed on a scroll in front of him and would not give him the relief of eye contact. Potter could play martyr without him.

Potter's hands were back among the slugs, but they weren't alone for more than a moment. Again, a stir of hands and a brush of skin, but this time the contact was prolonged. _I'm still interested._ Snape fought and resisted the urge to turn his head toward the two students. He must have shown some reaction, however, because the girl pouring powder in front of him had nervously spilled some on his desk and muttered an anxious apology that he ignored.

He watched as this time Potter didn't jerk away. The boy's hand held steady, and then, to Snape's surprise, returned its own message with a small hesitation, then a firm touch, a reply without voice but clear intent.

_Yes._

* * *

_Hoje é o dia da graça_  
Hoje é o dia capa e do caçador  
  
Today is the day of grace,  
Today is the day of the hunt and the hunter.  
Caçada - Chico Buarque (Portuguese lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

Professor Snape wasn't the only one who had covertly observed Potter's interaction at the slug tray. Clear grey eyes widened in surprise as they watched the unexpected exchange between Potter and Zacharias Smith. Draco hadn't paid much attention to the Hufflepuff over the years, except to conclude he was quick-tempered and not particularly gifted. Potter was definitely out of Smith's league, but that had never stopped anyone before - Potter was continuously attracting attention from awe-struck school mates. No, to him the newsworthy detail was Potter's apparent return of Smith's interest. This bore investigation, he decided, and he planned his next move. He managed to persuade Gregory to finish up for him, and he slipped out to loiter in a secluded niche near the door.

He didn't have long to wait. Potter waved away Granger and the Weasel, and trailed behind the rest of the class. Smith easily caught up to him, and they lingered in the hall, unaware that they were being watched. Their voices were pitched too low for Draco to eavesdrop, so he cast a hearing enhancement spell that Snape had taught him.

"Potter," Smith said, and Draco got the impression that he was already nervous about the conversation.

The Gryffindor wore a troubled expression, but he seemed to be trying to cover it with a semblance of interest. "What?"

Smith closed the distance between them and rested a hand on Potter's arm. "Listen, I - I owe you a big apology. Shit, I've been such a pillock. I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time about everything this year. It was stupid and childish of me."

Potter looked surprised at the confession, and Draco wondered what had gone on between the two of them. Somehow there was bad blood between them.

"It's okay," Potter answered. "I understand. I get it a lot, actually," he added and laughed, but Draco heard no pleasure in it.

"No, it's not okay. Not at all. You were doing everything you could to help us, and I kicked you in the teeth." Smith looked up shyly. "To tell you the truth, I was jealous of you."

Potter snorted, then found his voice. "Jealous of me? Nothing here to be jealous of."

"Well, I disagree. You're really quite amazing, you know." Potter had the sense to look embarrassed at that gushing confession.

Smith took a deep breath. "Anyway, Ginny told me a little bit about what happened with You-Know-Who a few days ago at the Ministry. She said that she was there and someone was killed - someone close to you. And I wanted to say I'm sorry."

Draco listened, fascinated. He'd read the _Daily Prophet_ about strange goings-on at the Ministry, and his father's sudden and shocking incarceration. For the first time, he had proof of his father's dark side - Lucius had revealed himself to be every bit as dangerous as Draco had imagined. His complicity against the Ministry must have been unquestionable, for them to move against him - he'd bought their silence for years. Still, in spite of everything, it was painful to think about his father at the mercy of dementors, sucking him dry.

The _Prophet's_ rather sudden backpedaling on You-Know-Who's reappearance, and the news that his Aunt Bellatrix was somehow involved, had come as a surprise. Stupidly, he hadn't yet asked Snape for more information, even though he knew that the _Prophet_ was notoriously unreliable. He hadn't heard that someone died, and he wondered who.

Potter didn't answer. He seemed to be struggling to keep his emotions in check, and meanwhile Smith had moved even closer. But Potter didn't back away; he was allowing the other boy to trail a comforting hand up and down his arm in what Draco considered a rather intimate way. Interesting.

"I'd like to start over if you'll let me," Smith said softly. "I was hoping you could forget that I was such a wanker all year and let me try again."

Potter looked up through his messy fringe, in the calculated way that made him look disarming, and gave the other boy a weak smile. "Yeah, you were a wanker, weren't you?" He chuckled briefly. "Okay. Clean slate time. My name is Harry Potter. It's nice to meet you."

Smith laughed, and stuck out his hand. "Zach Smith. I've heard a lot about you. It's nice to meet you, too, Harry."

"Zach." They shook hands solemnly. When they were done, however, neither let go. Draco found their offhand intimacy unexpected. Snape was right about the benefits of careful observation - he'd had recent suspicions about Smith. But Potter was another matter - he'd never considered him to be anything but wholeheartedly straight. When had the Hufflepuff picked up any signals to the contrary?

Smith looked at Potter, seemed to hesitate, then said, "Some of us are headed into Hogsmeade tonight. I was wondering if you'd like to come with me?"

Potter's eyes widened, and Draco struggled not to laugh at his barefaced astonishment. "You're asking me? Um. I mean, thanks. But, ah, right now things are pretty weird in my life, and I'm doing all I can just to get through the week. I know how that sounds. Dramatic. I don't mean to be. But I can't think about anything more right now." He looked concerned, turning his intense green eyes on the flustered Smith, then offered him a shy smile. "Um. Thanks, though."

So that was the famous Potter appeal, Draco thought wryly. Something he'd heard about but never got to see for himself, that was certain.

Smith looked resigned to his brush-off, but he hadn't backed away at all. "Okay, Harry. Maybe another time."

Potter nodded. "Tell you what. Ask me again when we come back in the fall, and I'll say yes." This time Potter's hand was doing most of the touching, to Draco's private amusement. Smith looked pretty pleased with himself, too. So, Harry Potter, poster boy for all that was wholesome and good, batted for the other team. As the two boys walked away, he could hear the sound of young girls' hearts breaking all over Hogwarts.

* * *

Snape looked up as Draco came back into the Potions classroom a scant five minutes after he'd left.

"Learn anything I hadn't already guessed?" He knew that Draco wouldn't be able to resist eavesdropping on Potter and his prospective paramour.

"Smith asked Potter for a date. He got turned down." Draco swung a chair around and sat across the desk from him. He folded his arms gracefully, leaning forward with interest. "Potter promised him a second chance at some undefined time in the future."

"Draco, you're turning into quite the little gossip."

Draco let out an indignant squawk. "I'm practicing, is all. You never know when you'll hear something of value. Plus, I managed to hear everything without them even knowing I was there."

He waved away the explanation. "By now that should be child's play for you."

Draco frowned, then belatedly caught on that it was meant as a backhanded compliment.

"Severus, tell me. What really happened at the Ministry? Why is Lucius in Azkaban?"

Snape, noting Draco's deliberate use of his father's first name, looked at him dispassionately. "It took you long enough to ask. I was beginning to worry at your alarming lack of curiosity."

"My mistake. I thought the _Prophet_ reported the whole account."

He gave a short laugh. "When has that rag ever got the story right? Really, Draco. You make me think I've failed in my efforts to make a decent detective of you."

"Well, I'm asking now."

So Snape told him.

Draco looked astonished, and Snape could tell that he was trying to hide his other emotions. "So Father was one of the main players against Potter? I can't believe he would expose himself so blatantly. His style is to let his minions do the dirty work and have them take the fall."

"The stakes were too high. The Dark Lord was personally involved, so your father had to commit himself as well." He paused, thinking that, while Draco acted as though he no longer cared about his father, the truth might still be hard for him to hear. "You realize that the Ministry had to act quickly against him. You need to understand, Draco, that they'll try to make sure your father remains in Azkaban."

"I know." Draco didn't look at him as he answered. "But he chose that path. He's got to pay the price."

Snape saw that, as he expected, it wasn't easy for Draco to come to grips with his father's choice. His normal, easy grace was gone, replaced with nervous restlessness and terse conversation. Maybe he was only parroting what he thought Snape wanted to hear.

"That leaves your mother without Lucius to safeguard her. Although I believe that the Death Eaters will feel some obligation to extend their protection to her. To set a good example, you know."

Draco furrowed his brow. "I don't think she ever committed herself to the cause. Death Eater wives are usually left out of the loop - Aunt Bellatrix is unusual. The Ministry should leave her alone."

"What the Ministry should do and what it does are not always one and the same."

"Bastards," Draco muttered, flopping back into his chair with an exasperated huff.

"Still, they've shown no interest in her in the past, so I think for the moment she's safe from Lucius' taint. And so far, they've not bothered her."

"But now that the dementors have left Azkaban-"

"Lucius won't be far behind them. The Dark Lord needs him too much not to rescue him."

Draco shrugged, then said, "That's what my last fight with Potter was about, actually. For sending Lucius to Azkaban, I was threatening to have him." He chuckled. "Now I wonder how he took that."

"If his wand at your throat was any indication, I'd say he didn't read it as an invitation."

"No."

"And for your indiscretion, and incredibly lucky timing by Professor McGonagall, Gryffindor was gifted with 250 House points."

Draco frowned, looking decidedly put out. "This has been my week for it, then. I mean, a Bat-Bogey hex! It took me hours to find someone who could get rid of it. In the end, I had to go crawling to Flitwick. Literally."

Snape successfully restrained any show of amusement, which he was certain would only infuriate Draco. "Would you like to share how that happened?"

"Not really, no. It wasn't my finest hour. And Potter made a hash of everything, too, I gather, but somehow he ends up everyone's Golden Boy."

"Not everyone's."

Draco looked at him sharply. "No. But you know we'll be hearing about the remarkable Boy-Who-Lived for weeks and weeks."

He thought about his response carefully. The animosity between him and Potter was best kept private, even if Draco did share the feeling. "Perhaps this time, if we're lucky, Potter will eventually realize how little he deserves the adulation."

Draco gave him his best Malfoy smirk. "Well, it'll have to be your luck. It's obvious mine's a bit wonky this week."

Snape allowed Draco a tiny smile, then deliberately changed the subject. "At least we got rid of that Umbridge woman. What an utter disaster she turned out to be - not only for Hogwarts, but for the Ministry."

* * *

_Sugar and stress, do everything at least twice;_  
Catch your fingers in your private vices.  
Sugar and Stress - English Beat  


. . . . . . . .

Draco loved being a Slytherin prefect. He loved the sense of authority it gave him. Not as though he didn't already have it; being a Malfoy, being wealthy, being the son of someone simmering with power. But that kind of reflected power didn't satisfy him, because he could always sense the resentment behind it, the unasked question - _"We know what your father can do - but what about you?"_

Now he had his own power, imparted to him by no less than the Hogwarts authorities. Hell, it even came with a bloody badge, a visible emblem of who he was and what that meant. Even if some students didn't respect him, they had to respect the symbol of power given to him by none other than Albus Dumbledore.

Admittedly, he also loved the perks that went along with the job. Rank did indeed have its privileges. Privileges like the use of the exclusive prefect's bathroom, which offered him a measure of extravagance and luxury he'd taken for granted at home. He developed a habit in his sixth year of retreating to its lavishness whenever he'd had a particularly stressful day. Like today.

Being a prefect hadn't saved him from an evening's detention after McGonagall caught him hexing a deluded fourth year who'd worked herself into an embarrassing crush on him. He wasn't sorry about the hex - it was necessary; the girl was behaving like an idiot, and his friends were goading him about it. He was sorry he got caught. Especially by that bitch McGonagall, who had a thing about humiliating him. She never had him copy scrolls, or alphabetize books, or any of the more dignified punishments she handed out to her suck-up Gryffindors - oh, no. For him it was always some demeaning house-elf shit, on his knees and the dirtier the better. The woman had a serious kink for humiliation.

Tired, sweaty, and dirty, he gathered his things and slipped into the bathroom for a late-night shower.

The water beat down on his tired skin, massaging away his tension with tiny needles of pressure. He lathered soap along his weary arms and legs, watching the white foam pool around his feet. Turning his back to the spray, he stroked shampoo through his hair and felt as well as heard the squeak as his hands slicked wetly through. Clean again, he let himself simply stand and feel the water pound all over his body.

It felt especially nice against his cock. He reached lazily for the soap and allowed his lubricated hand to heighten the water's power to arouse him. Excellent.

He didn't bother to stop when he heard the door open. Turning slightly, he caught sight of Joseph Flint, Marcus' younger brother and fifth year Slytherin prefect. Not someone he normally concerned himself with, as a rule. Flint had an appalling lack of influence - how he managed to make prefect at all was a mystery he'd never solved. He closed his eyes and returned to his more gratifying pursuit.

"Malfoy. What are you doing?" Flint asked, with surprise apparent in his high-pitched question.

Annoyed, he opened his eyes to glare meaningfully. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Flint began walking toward the shower, then abruptly stopped. "Um. I. Well."

Draco snarled his agreement. "Yes, _well_. The next question is what are _you_ doing?"

"I, um, I wanted to take a shower."

"Then be my guest," he said and closed his eyes again. His hand kept its slow rhythm, stroking his erection in smooth, long strokes. "Stay or go."

He heard Flint plunk down his own supplies somewhere near him, the sound amplified in the large room. Draco smiled to himself at the thought of this unsophisticated schoolboy trying to appear unconcerned and worldly in the face of a wanking older prefect. Initially, he'd kept at it out of vexation, only because he couldn't be arsed to stop for the likes of Flint. But now he realized that he was intrigued by the idea of having an audience, and not a little aroused knowing he was being watched. This was something entirely new. It gave him a feeling of sexual power he'd never before experienced.

Flint cleared his throat. "Aren't you going to stop?"

"No."

"Are you some kind of perv, then?" Flint chuckled nervously.

He turned a full-powered Malfoy glare at the other boy and was satisfied to see him flinch in response. "Listen, Flint. Either stay or go. Ignore me or watch. It's all the same to me. It's _your_ choice, not mine." Even a dim git like Flint would get that message.

Flint stayed. And Draco knew that he was watching. He heard the metallic clink of a belt as Flint's trousers hit the tiled floor. Draco looked over as the uneasy fifth-year turned on his shower, and the sound of hissing water was magnified in the room. Draco stared, expressionless, as Flint edged into the spray, his curly, dark hair turning black in the water. Flint peered back with nervous awe. He was blushing, the red stain creeping down his neck and chest, and he was already half hard.

"So who's the perv, then," Draco asked, with a pointed stare. Flint gave him a half smile, then started moving towards him. "Stop," he commanded, and the other boy looked startled but stopped immediately.

Draco growled, "Stay where you are. You can look, but you can't touch."

"I wasn't- "

He snorted in irritation. " _Merlin_ , Flint, shut the fuck up. Too much talk. You're ruining the mood here." With that, he stepped back under the water, tipping his head back and letting the stream flow over his head and shoulders in a warm wave.

Whereas before he'd concentrated on getting the job done, now he was all about the show he was putting on for Flint. Not that he was even remotely interested in the other boy. This wasn't about Flint. It was about power and control. And it was hedonistic. And erotic. And stimulating as hell.

His hands wove seductive patterns across his pale, wet skin. He took a moment to add more soap to his palms, then allowed them to glide sensually across his shoulders and chest. His fingers circled his pink nipples, tugging them gently into arousal, before continuing their journey down, down, until his cock was back in the grip of his tightening hand. He sighed with unadulterated pleasure, one hand fondling his cock, while the other caressed his sac and entwined in the wet, silky hairs at the base. He heard a low moan from his audience, and he couldn't disguise a responding smirk.

He'd never fully appreciated the power that this kind of sexual display could command. He knew by observation, of course, that he was attractive to both girls and boys, and even to some of Father's friends. But he'd appreciated it solely in an abstract way - until now. Because this was intoxicating. Knowing that Flint was in thrall to him in these brief moments, the slack-jawed expression on the other boy's face attesting to the raw desire there - _well_.

All his life, he'd learned the crucial facts about gathering and using power from his father, but maybe his mother knew something about power, too - something he'd missed. He'd never analyzed it before, but she had a subtle yet genuine power of her own; men willingly yielded control to her as they responded to her sensuous manipulation. And suddenly, with his hand on his cock and Flint's eyes on him, he was feeling very much like his mother's son.

He was building towards orgasm, growing more excited than he'd ever been before by his own hand. So hard now that it was almost painful, he opened his eyes to stare at Flint, who was gaping with unrestrained hunger at the exhibition on display before him. Flint's own hands were on himself, but unmoving, as if the younger boy had forgotten himself altogether. Draco made himself focus on holding the other boy's eye, and then he was coming, uninhibited, furiously, extravagantly. His panting breath and strangled cries echoed around the cavernous room.

Draco leaned back against the wall until his heartbeat slowed and his legs felt as though they could bear his weight again. Then, after a final rinse under the shower, he shut off the water, toweled himself briskly, nonchalantly tossed on his robe, and without a word to his spectator, strode over to the door.

A surreptitious glance on his way out, however, showed him that Flint had finally remembered what his own hands were capable of.

* * *

_In the locust wind, comes a rattle and hum;_  
Jacob wrestled the angel, and the angel was overcome.  
Bullet the Blue Sky - U2

. . . . . . . .

Draco always enjoyed his clandestine evenings spent training with Snape, especially when it offered a break from studying for his NEWTS. Actually, his own preparation was going well, but Gregory's was not. He was quietly impressed that his friend had survived the rigorous course work of seventh year. Gregory, never a talented scholar, had only stuck it out at Hogwarts for Draco's sake. In unspoken gratitude, he felt obliged to help him whenever he could. Still, he looked forward to his evenings away from coaching his struggling friend.

He and Snape were working with Veritaserum, and Draco was never sure whether their sessions made him more intrigued or afraid. But the drug was a primary tool in espionage - both sides depended on it for interrogation.

"Veritaserum is the most widely used potion in the wizarding world," Snape told him.

He couldn't resist. "Not lubricant, then?"

Snape merely rolled his eyes at the impertinence.

"The Roman governor Pontius Pilate asked the famous question, _What is truth_?" he continued. "Everyone knows that Veritaserum compels the recipient to answer questions with the truth. But many truths can suffice to answer those questions. I am going to help you practice telling the least harmful truth you can."

He was fascinated. He'd never thought about the subtleties of answers given under the potion. "So it's possible to lie under Veritaserum?"

"You cannot lie, but as long as you believe yourself to be telling the truth, you can answer in various ways. So ask me a question and I'll demonstrate."

He considered the challenge, then smiled slyly. "Okay. Have you ever slept with anyone?"

Snape narrowed his eyes and snorted. "You seem to think that I didn't expect you to ask that particular question. But I've known you too long." He paused, but Draco wisely remained mute. "One way for me to answer is with a simple yes. Because your question has enough vague interpretations, I can say yes, because I have literally slept with someone. My mother, for example, when I was an infant. Roommates when I was a student - we were technically asleep in the same room, so in that case I believe the answer to be yes."

Draco had to give him credit for the subtlety of his answer. "So the question was flawed."

"Yes. Many questioners make the same mistake you did by asking a question that can be taken another way. Use that to your advantage if you can."

He knew that Snape wasn't going any further with his impudent question. "May I try another?"

Snape nodded.

"Are you a spy for Dumbledore?"

"Very good. Without training in resisting your question, I would feel compelled to answer yes. But I will take as much time as the potion will permit to look at different aspects of the question that I can answer without causing as much damage. So rather than answering yes, I might instead say that Dumbledore believes me to be a spy for him - which is true - and that his belief is necessary to my deception - also true. If my answer is elaborate enough, I can disguise the fact that I haven't really answered the question directly."

After weeks of this kind of preparation, Draco felt more confident in his ability to divert his answers under questioning. Even Snape had seemed pleased with his progress. Maybe being a Slytherin gave him a natural advantage, he thought, with the smug satisfaction born of a little experience. For the past three sessions, they'd practiced with actual Veritaserum. First, Draco would test his ability to divert a line of interrogation under its effects, then Snape would dose himself with the potion so that Draco could practice devising useful questions.

Snape handed him a tiny dose of the potion, blended in a small amount of whisky, and Draco lifted the glass and swallowed the liquid wordlessly. They waited a few minutes for it to take effect.

"Have you completed your homework this evening before coming here?" Snape always started the interrogation with a few innocent questions, designed to relax Draco and get him in the habit of answering directly. His goal was to deflect even these simple questions and set up a pattern of dissembling.

He waited as long as he was able before answering, but the pressure to speak built quickly, until he was forced to say, "Nothing prevented me from coming here tonight."

"Not even Mr. Goyle?"

"Gregory never tries to hinder me. He's a loyal friend."

Snape nodded his approval. "Are you adequately preparing for your NEWTs?"

He smiled. "Yes. And no." He'd latched onto the word _adequately_ \- subjective enough that he could interpret it as he would.

"Both? How is that possible?" Snape needled.

"I never know if my preparations are entirely adequate. It depends on the day you ask, I suppose."

"And just how many NEWTs do you think you'll manage?"

"All that I set my mind to."

"Do you have a number in mind?"

"Yes." He had to catch himself from giving the actual number, but he had not been asked for it directly. Snape smiled in satisfaction when he failed to offer it.

"Good, Draco. You've improved a great deal since your first trial. But answering these questions is like catching a stunned Snitch, wouldn't you say?"

Having never actually done that, he could only answer, "I don't know."

"It's time to move on. Most questions you will be asked under these conditions will have a large emotional component to them. It's far more difficult to answer them carefully while at the same time controlling your reactions."

Draco grew nervous at these words.

"So let's try this one: have you ever slept with anyone, Mr. Malfoy?"

He grinned, remembering asking Snape that impudent query just weeks ago.

"Of course, Professor."

"Meaning...."

"I've slept with my mother when I was an infant. My roommates in the dormitory."

Snape smiled coldly before asking, "Have you ever taken part in sexual relations with anyone to the point of orgasm?"

The grin faded from his face. "I...I... No." He hadn't been able to think of any alternate meaning to that question before the Veritaserum forced him to reply.

"Have you ever kissed anyone?"

"Yes." This time he didn't attempt to smile.

"Meaning...."

"My mother. My father. My grandparents. Half my relatives, actually."

"Have you kissed anyone in a sexually arousing manner?"

Again he felt trapped into answering. "Yes."

"Was this lucky person a girl?"

Draco hesitated. She could be conceivably be considered a woman now, not a girl. But what answer did he want to give - yes or no? The potion was nagging insistently at his brain, limiting his thinking. Not knowing which would benefit him, he settled on replying, "Maybe."

"Have you kissed any boys?"

That irritated him. But it was similar enough to the previous question that he could dodge it the same way. "Maybe."

"Any males?"

Nailed. "Yes."

"Who was it?"

Draco's anger flared, and he snapped. "Why are you asking me this? It's none of your business." But then he felt the pressure building in him to answer, and he heard himself say, "Zacharias Smith." It was embarrassing to admit dallying with someone they both knew was Potter's cast-off.

For his part, Snape seemed unaffected by his emotional outburst "As I said, Draco, this session is to help you devise answers while under emotional stress. Your answers make no difference to me."

"It's just.... Never mind." He trailed off, still annoyed.

"Did it occur more than once?"

He fought with the word _it_ , looking for some nuance of meaning, but his composure was shaky. "Yes." But he refused to confess any more. A tiny victory.

"Are you still seeing Mr. Smith?"

 _Seeing_ , now there was a shaded word. "Yes. I see him every day, in class."

"Are you still sharing sexually rewarding kisses with Mr. Smith?"

This had to be more than a training exercise. "No."

"Why not?"

Would he _never_ stop? "It's in the past." There, that was a little more vague.

"Why are you no longer romantically involved with Mr. Smith?"

 _Merlin_. "It was weeks ago. It was never like that - romantic. It was just two blokes messing around."

"Do you miss him?"

"Severus. _Enough_. You said you'd never go any further. You know, about my sexuality. And no, I don't miss him, all right?"

Snape smiled. "It will never go any further than me. I did promise you that, and I intend to hold to it. I know you find this embarrassing, but try to overlook the nature of the questions and focus on our purpose. I am trying to teach you how to resist my questions."

"But I can't. There's no wiggle room."

"Exactly." Snape sat back with a satisfied air. "Not every question can be easily avoided. Some are so specific that you can't help but answer them. You must learn to accept that."

Draco gave a short harrumph and looked away.

"Are you sharing sexually rewarding kisses with anyone presently?"

He suppressed his growing vexation and thought carefully. Okay, not right this minute. "No."

"Within the past week?"

Draco looked smug. "No."

"Do you regret that state of affairs?"

He knew Snape was deliberately trying to rile him, and yet he could no longer contain his rising anger. "Yes. Bloody hell, I'm seventeen years old. Of course I'd like to be _sharing sexually rewarding kisses_ with someone."

He realized his mistake immediately, and Snape moved in to exploit the opening he'd been handed.

"Who would that _someone_ be, Draco?"

He tried to slow this down, so he'd have time to think. "Um. There are plenty of candidates. I think I'd start with the keeper of Puddlemere United, whose ... _talents_ ... are disclosed on the recent cover of _Witch Weekly_. There's a clerk at Hogsmeade's branch of Flourish and Blotts who's definitely interesting. A few of my classmates." He felt like he had regained control of the conversation and relaxed a little.

"But is there one particular person you have in mind?"

Draco was grabbing at straws. "I have a lot of people in mind right now."

"But is there one person in your life that you would most like to be sharing those sexually rewarding kisses with?"

 _No_. God, no. "Please, Severus. Please don't ask me. I can't...I don't want to tell you...." But the compelling force of the potion was too great. His voice ran down and he finally had to confess. "Because it's you." He lowered his head, feeling miserable and defeated. "Why did you... just ... I'm sorry."

He couldn't look at him. He was shattered. Why did Snape have to trap him into that admission - _why_? Had he suspected and couldn't let it rest until he knew?

The silence grew painful around them. Finally, Snape spoke. His voice had lost all of its antagonism, sounding almost gentle.

"I'm sorry that I forced you to tell me that. Believe me, I had no idea that you.... Well. I apologize."

Draco still couldn't look him in the eye. "I wasn't ever going to say anything. I know you're my professor, and it could get you sacked if anything happened between us. I know that."

"Please don't apologize. Had I known, I would never have asked you these questions."

He felt such overwhelming need to keep explaining - whether it was the potion or his awkward admission driving him, he couldn't say. His dignity was in shreds. Snape surely thought he was nothing but a hormone-driven adolescent with a schoolboy crush. Who was to say he wasn't right, but still....

"I'm not in love with you or anything," he admitted to the suddenly interesting floor. "It's just that I've got to know you these past three years. You're not who you let other people think you are. I find you interesting, that's all."

Snape was being patient with him, trying to gloss over his confession. "I understand. Don't think that you've offended me, Draco. It's flattering. But unrealistic. Now, say nothing more until the Veritaserum has worn off. I judge we have about five more minutes. Then you may return to your room, or we'll continue with our training."

He nodded. He could sense Snape moving off into another part of the study, leaving him in respectful solitude. After what seemed like an agonizing hour but that he judged was closer to ten minutes, he returned.

"Are you still angry with me?" Snape asked.

"I don't think I'll answer that, if you don't mind," he said, with a smirk. The Veritaserum had worn off.

"We can stop now if you'd like."

"Oh, no, I'd like my shot at you. Go ahead and drink your potion like a good Death Eater spy." He'd finally gathered enough courage to look at the other man, and was satisfied at the smile he received at his weak attempt at humor.

The Veritaserum was dispatched, in rather more whisky that Draco had been given.

As they waited for the potion to take effect, he contemplated what questions he would ask. At Snape's nod, he began.

"When you asked me if there was someone I had in mind for - well, for romantic things - did you know what I would answer?"

Snape looked benignly at him. "No. I had no idea. If I'd suspected, I would not have pressed you as I did. I didn't intend to hurt you."

"Why did you ask me those questions in the first place?"

"As I said, to engage your emotions. I know that being gay is a sensitive subject for you, one that I was fairly certain would provoke you quickly."

"So you used that against me?"

"Not against you. Never against you. I wanted to use it to help you strengthen your skills. If you are ever questioned under Veritaserum by Death Eaters, they will be far harsher with you." Snape was making no attempt to avoid answering his questions fully and deliberately. He was making amends in the only way he knew how, Draco realized, by masking his words behind the nature of the potion he was under. He appreciated it.

"Are you gay, Severus?"

Snape exhaled slowly. "No. I am not. I prefer women. Although I admit, probably unsurprisingly, that my love life hasn't been as robust as it might be." He quirked an eyebrow at Draco. "I'm not exactly engaging in those sexually rewarding kisses, either. Even though I am no longer seventeen."

Draco looked away quickly before the amusement in his face became too apparent. "So I have no hope with you then?"

"None. Although if I were indeed so inclined, I would find it difficult to turn a blind eye to your charms, Mr. Malfoy."

He bowed his head in mock acceptance. "As well you should, Professor. I am a unique and special treasure, as my mother would certainly vouch for. Would you like to praise me in detail? I'm willing to listen, if you feel the need to unburden yourself."

"You have me at a disadvantage. So I will only state that I think I've said as much as is good for you and leave it at that."

He was just about to reply when the fireplace flared into abrupt illumination, and the headmaster's serious face appeared there. They both reacted quickly to his presence.

"Severus. Draco. Please forgive my interruption, but I felt it necessary to speak with you both. We've had word of increased Death Eater activity in the last few hours. Also, many of the students here who are children of known Voldemort supporters have been summoned home by their parents and have already begun to leave the school. In fact, Draco, I believe you will find an owl awaiting you in your room. As a result, I am calling an immediate meeting of the Order in my office."

Snape stood up abruptly. "I'll be right there, sir." Dumbledore disappeared, but Draco continued to stare into the empty flames in shock.

"I'd better get ready to leave, too," he said shakily, rising from his chair. "Father will have summoned me."

"No, Draco," Snape barked out. "I want you to stay here at Hogwarts."

He could only look at him in confusion. "What are you saying? I need to go. We've planned for this. We've-"

Snape reached out and grabbed him roughly by the forearms, holding him fast. "I don't think you should go yet. There must be some way you can delay. Tell your father you have to take your NEWTs. Tell him-"

"No. I can't. I don't understand why you're saying this. We've planned everything, expecting this to happen."

He could see that Snape was struggling against the Veritaserum still in his system, which forced him to answer truthfully. "I don't want you to go. I'm afraid for you, Draco. I want you to wait until I can be there to protect you."

"Oh, Severus. I'll be okay. In just a little while you'll be able to join me, and you know I can hold my own until you come. I promise not to do anything extraordinary. I'm no Gryffindor - you can trust me to keep my head down. You've taught me well."

"Draco." He'd never heard such raw emotion in Snape's voice before, and Draco closed his eyes and let it wash over him.

"I've _got_ to go. If I don't, they'll be suspicious, you know that."

"Yes, I know that. But I wish it didn't have to happen like this. I hoped you wouldn't be summoned, that you could stay here until.... Well." He released Draco's arms, then he sighed. "You're right."

He was suddenly overcome by the awareness of what he was about to do and where he was headed. Hearing Snape express his honest fear had kindled the same fear in him, and he admitted for the first time that their alliance had been more than an abstract exercise. He was scared. Suddenly panicky, he threw himself into Snape's startled embrace, and they held each other close.

"Dumbledore will be waiting," Snape finally acknowledged.

"I'm ready," he replied, although he knew he wouldn't have been able to say that under the Veritaserum.

Snape held him back for a moment longer, though. "Draco, don't be sorry that you told me what you did earlier. I am not. I consider it an honor to be held in your regard. As you are held in mine." He pulled away as though he couldn't bear to admit any more. "We must go."

* * *

_Make a cross, make amends to set the record straight,_  
We've never said the only things we should have ever bothered saying.  
Sole Salvation - English Beat

. . . . . . . .

The evening had taken on such an air of unreality that Draco struggled to maintain his direction. Somehow, during the long months intimately spent with Severus, he'd allowed himself the luxury of forgetting - he'd forgotten exactly why he was training, what would have to happen next, where he must end up. But Severus had allowed him that. Tonight, he realized that his mentor had almost forgotten it himself.

His father's owl was waiting in the window of his bedroom. With shaking hands, it took him three attempts to free the scroll tightly bound to a sharp-clawed leg, disregarding the elegant bird's chill gaze. It was a very short message.

_It is time. Come home immediately._

He needed to reply so that the family owl would return to the Manor, but words failed him. In the end, all he could muster was a terse, " _Yes_." He didn't even bother to sign his name.

Yes. It _was_ time.

He was suddenly at a loss over what to pack and what to leave behind. Cursing himself for not mentally preparing himself at least this much, he rummaged through his trunk, snatching out a few essentials. Letters from Crabbe, written to him from Durmstrang. An unexpectedly elegant quill that Goyle had given him for his last birthday. A few clothes, some photos, his collection of Quidditch autographs. His broom.

He paused, undecided, over his school work. A few short hours ago, he'd worked diligently over the scroll on his desk, piecing together an Arithmancy proof, gratified when he'd pulled the threads together into one master diagram. And now - all pointless. He eyed the rest of his papers stacked neatly in piles, one organized batch for each class, ready for him to review as he prepared for his exams - all unneeded. There would be no more Arithmancy, no classes at all, no NEWTs. His life as a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had come to an abrupt and unwelcome end.

For a brief instant, he wanted more than anything to make a dramatic statement by incinerating the whole tempting arrangement, and he drew out his wand. At the last minute, he gave up the notion - a childish urge, really - and instead used his wand to shrink his modest bag. He snatched it up and crammed it into his robes.

With one last, sorrowful look, he firmly pulled the door to his room closed behind him.

But once he allowed himself to think about the end of his life here at Hogwarts, he couldn't shake the overwhelming sadness that gripped him. He was mourning already- it was maudlin, pathetic, he told himself harshly; it wasn't how a Malfoy should rise to such an occasion. But every turn brought a new distraction - this is the last time I'll hear the common room door close behind me ... the last time I'll feel the chill dampness of the dungeon corridor ... the last time I'll see the portraits nodding at me as I rush past ... the last time I'll feel the cold stone walls under my hand ... the last time ...

He longed to be beyond the wards. The way to the gates had never seemed so far, and his heart ached with every step. If only his path weren't so terrifying, so uncertain, so solitary, he told himself, then he wouldn't have succumbed so thoroughly to this black melancholy. If only he'd better prepared himself....

He heard footsteps in the darkened hall behind him and nervously turned his head to see who followed in the shadows of the eerily wordless statues.

Potter.

He wasn't even surprised. All evening, ever since Dumbledore had called all the houses together and gave them the news of the onset of war, agitated conversation had reverberated in the Great Hall, and in the common rooms, and in the secret meeting places of Hogwarts. Draco had been acutely aware of Potter's presence, registered the sheer tension he gave off all around him like sparks, watched him pace and fidget and coil as if to pounce on anyone daring to make a move.

They both stopped, waiting. It felt like a duel.

"Malfoy."

"Potter." He resisted an irrational urge to follow the greeting with a formal bow, and allowed the other boy to approach without another word.

"Where are you going?" There was challenge in that voice.

He bit back the first retort that came to him, and the second and third. They both knew it was none of Potter's concern; he had as much right to be wandering the corridors as Potter did. This conversation was meaningless. Anything meaningful had already been said, all the nasty words, the challenges and threats. There were no words left. And he was tired, he had to admit he was afraid, and he wasn't going to play this game of theirs anymore. Not tonight. It was over.

So he said nothing.

"Why, Malfoy?" Potter didn't need to elaborate; they both knew what that question meant.

He couldn't even begin to explain, he realized unhappily, even if he had been free to answer.

"It's time for me to go."

Potter screwed up his face at that, even though he must have been expecting the reply or something very much like it. Draco watched his hands grip tightly into fists at his side. "It doesn't have to be like this. Everyone has a choice. Even you, Malfoy. You don't have to go to Voldemort just because your father did."

He recognized that, incredibly, Potter was going to give him the full-blown speech, using all the persuasive earnestness he owned, all the passionate fire and ardent conviction for his cause. He gave voice to his passion with the sincerity that so defined him. Draco was frankly amazed that he even made the effort; that apparently even Draco Malfoy was not so unsalvageable that Potter would let him go without a fight. Potter allowed his words to carry one last appeal, and Draco let him speak, thinking, this is the last time he and I will face each other.

In other circumstances, he could have allowed himself to be persuaded by Potter's entreaty. In some distant part of his mind, he wondered what that might have been like. What would Potter's reaction have been? Would he have given up his long-held animosity in the face of declared loyalty to the Order? Would they have put their anger and hatred behind them at last - maybe even become friends?

But Draco's path led in another direction, and he let his first words be his last. "It's time for me to go."

"You didn't answer me. I want to know. Why?"

Potter was tenacious, he had to admit. He supposed that being the savior of the wizarding world was something almost reflexive after all this time, something he couldn't seem to turn off.

"Potter, I don't owe you an explanation. I have my reasons." Why did he have to make this so hard?

"Malfoy-"

"Look, I'll find you someday when this is all over and explain it over drinks. The Leaky Cauldron okay with you?" Even as he said the words and imagined the two of them relaxing over firewhisky, he knew he'd never see that fantasy come true. They wouldn't both survive this war.

"No. Don't go, Malfoy. Please."

Looking back, he never did work out why he reacted the way he did - maybe it was a way to say goodbye to his childhood. Or it could have been a reaction to his earlier, humbling confession to Severus. It was all so cold, so final - the hall, the night, the words echoing around him. Everything was closing in on him, freezing him. Maybe he was only looking for warmth. Goodbye ... goodbye ... this is the last time....

But something in the tone of Potter's voice, something in his whispered plea, made him surrender to the impulse to draw close to his rival, to carefully rest his hands on his shoulders to steady him and to pull him close. He felt warm breath dancing on his cheek, suddenly faster and more erratic than during the speech, now intimate and tempting. He acted without wanting to think too hard about what he was doing - what they were both doing. He stilled Potter's gasp with his lips and felt the responding pressure as though it was a wave breaking over him. Drowning him. Goodbye.

And in this dark, empty corridor, where he stood balanced between two worlds - here between the past and the unknown future - he could pretend that this kiss was the only thing that mattered. Here, he allowed himself to imagine he was no longer Draco Malfoy, with every bit of history that name dragged with it, but just a lonely soldier headed off to war. And here, he could almost believe that Potter was different, too.

They both pulled away as reality slowly reasserted itself. His heart pounding, his breath unsteady, he reluctantly dropped his hands and took a single step back. He'd acted with recklessness, with no reason he could name, and his head was whirling. He certainly hadn't expected to relish or to take pleasure in their kiss quite like that - but he had.

"What - what was that for?" Potter managed to stammer.

He smiled without any effort. "For trying. And maybe for luck."

Potter's face took on a willful determination that Draco recognized from seven years of glares across the Great Hall, from wordless challenges in Potions classes, from altercations on the Quidditch pitch. The other boy closed the space between them and threaded his hands behind Draco's neck, massaging them roughly against the blond silk of his hair. He moved forward as if in slow motion, finally touching Draco's mouth again with his own, gentle at first, then suddenly fierce and unrestrained. Draco didn't refuse him, didn't deny him anything.

If their first spontaneous kiss had been a question - What am I to you? - then this kiss might be an answer. What was it?

Draco thought it might have been this: We made a difference in each other's lives. Until this moment, I didn't value that.

The unexpected thrill of Potter kissing him back engulfed him. If there was a name for what he was feeling, he didn't know it. The shift of control - from him to Potter - had changed everything in an instant, and what was left of his restraint vanished. He let one hand lightly brush Potter's neck, and the other rested against his chest where he could feel a quickening heartbeat. Potter was leaning in and hanging on, his fingers clutching Draco as if he'd never let go. And all the while, the kiss enveloped them, possessed them, and they were both breathless from its intensity. The cold chill that had surrounded Draco was gone.

Potter didn't smell like spices or remind Draco of seasons past; he smelled like soap and skin, just like any other boy. His mouth didn't taste of exotic wines or expensive sweets; he tasted no different than anyone else Draco had kissed. He didn't kiss with consummate skill or dazzling technique, but he did kiss with fire and passion, and Draco let it capture him completely.

If their first kiss had let him forget who he was, if only briefly, this kiss retrieved him. Awakened him.

With one final, intimate press of lips, they drew apart.

"For luck, then," Potter said, his voice sounding rough with suppressed emotion. "You'll need a hell of a lot of it where you're going."

Draco took one final look at him, committing to memory just how he appeared at that instant - disheveled and silent and resigned - and turned away. _Goodbye._

But as he walked away, he felt curiously calmer, steadier, maybe even a little braver - and he wondered wryly whether kissing a Gryffindor could make a person courageous through some kind of strange magical transfer. With unexpected determination, he paced decisively through the halls, pushed forcefully through the heavy door of the school he knew he'd never again call home, hurried down the sloping hill beyond the wards, whispered a final goodbye to the life he'd known - to Severus and Gregory, to his Slytherin classmates and teachers, and yes, to Potter - and Apparated to wherever his sacrifice was leading him.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

_And if I could save you, and if I could find a solution,_  
I would die a thousand times, to get you out of here.  
Warsaw 1943 (I Never Betrayed The Revolution) - Johnny Clegg

. . . . . . . .

Dean Thomas woke abruptly at the wrong end of a hostile, unfaltering wand and instantly realized to his horror that he knew too many valuable things.

In the short moment between waking and wanting to react, he forced himself to remain immobile. At the same time, his thoughts were racing nineteen to the dozen, trying to grasp at any possible way out of this, to grab at his mental list of commands that all Order soldiers were required to memorize. _Observe_ , was the first one, but in his terror he was certain he couldn't remember any of the rest...oh, _shit._ So he concentrated and tried to observe in the distant hope that the rest of the list would come to his panicked mind in due time. He observed that the hand that held the wand directed at his head belonged to one of the enemy's younger soldiers - no one he recognized.

"Davidson," the soldier barked loudly. "I found one."

He heard loud footsteps running in his direction, and it sounded like a group. Sure enough, three figures burst in through the shed door, wands drawn. He clamped down on his instinct to leap up and run, knowing instant death would be the logical result of that foolish move.

"Get his wand, then."

Hands grabbed roughly at him, one pair hauling him up to his feet, another pulling at his clothing. His wand was discovered in short order and passed to whom Dean judged to be the oldest Death Eater in the group of too-young men. The leader, then. Davidson? He tensed, anticipating that his wand would be snapped immediately, and was surprised when the leader pocketed it without comment. What could the DEs be doing with the wands? The Allies always eliminated enemy wands as soon as possible, to prevent their recapture.

His focus on observing was helping in some limited way to cool down some of his initial panic, and he could now remember the second command for capture - warn your teammates. In the few short minutes that had passed, he hadn't had a chance. Thanking whatever fortune had allowed most of their group to disperse only a few hours earlier, he considered who was left and where they were. Creevey - on patrol nearby. With any luck, he'd heard the earlier shout and sound of running; he'd be warned and gone by now. That left Diehl and Longbottom, in the abandoned tack room a short distance off. Seamus was scouting in the nearby town somewhere, presumably safe.

"What's your name?"

Before he could even attempt an answer, the question was followed with a sudden fist; Dean managed to turn and dip slightly just before impact so that it struck him full force in his shoulder rather than his solar plexus. Grateful for his captor's unwitting mistake, he responded with the loudest yell he could muster. There - Diehl was a light sleeper, at least; she certainly heard that. Warning given, then.

But now the DEs exacted the price he knew he'd have to pay for the outcry. He closed his eyes as fists slammed into him again and again. Making sport of him, mostly, taking turns among the four of them in a sadistic parody of a dance. He forced himself not to protect himself with his hands - god, not his hands - and the blows finally knocked him to the ground, where blunt-toed boots beat an ugly tattoo against his torso.

He knew, though, that unless his captors were unusually thick - which was by no means guaranteed - they'd make sure he was conscious and mostly intact. This - this was just to release the adrenalin they'd built up from the stalking and capture. He understood this. Nasty and brutish it may be - he could only hope for _short_ \- but the real horrors were still to come.

And that worried him enormously.

Veritaserum was a given. Both sides relied on it heavily to interrogate prisoners. Because of that constant threat, no one in the Order was permitted to have information for longer than they needed it to carry out their mission. After that, memory charms were called into play to erase any valuable details. Being on the front lines - at least what passed for front lines in a running battle where participants could Apparate and Disapparate at will - Dean was careful to keep a prudent balance of knowledge learned and forgotten. He had always been so careful to keep up steady contact with their unit's memory charm expert - Hermione in his case. He'd been so vigilant. Until now, when it mattered.

Because right now he knew where Harry Potter was.

And the third thing on the list, after observing and warning, was to protect that information at any cost.

 _Any_ cost.

The pain slamming through him from his very thorough beating at Death Eater hands was now matched with the emotional pain of accepting what he was about to do. His first line of defense was going to be his last. He would have to encourage these four thugs to kill him.

With any luck, he could provoke one of them to quick anger and a quicker _Avada Kedavra_.

Otherwise, he'd probably suffer the slow and painful way, being beaten to death. Trickier, because he could end up nearly dead and they'd heal him enough to strip the truth from him anyway.

Well. At least he knew the fastest way to piss off most men. He took a ragged breath, looked Davidson in the eye, and as clearly as he could despite what felt very much like a busted jaw, said, "Don't let your friends see you getting hard over me. They won't want to sleep near you any more."

That earned him, from the feel of it, a damaged kidney, but not from Davidson. Rolling into the pain, he turned to who he'd hoped was now the most frenzied of the DEs. Grimacing, he added to the younger man, "But maybe he'll let you have sloppy seconds."

_C'mon, c'mon...you know you want to kill me now...._

But it didn't happen.

The last thing he heard, before blissful unconsciousness, was Davidson's hissed command warning the others off, followed by a curt, " _Stupefy._ "

When he came to, slowly and blearily, he was no longer in the dark shed. He was immobilized on the hard floor of some windowless cell. By the feel of things, they hadn't bothered with any healing, although he was certain they'd have checked him over for any life-threatening injuries before leaving him alone.

Observe.

Warn.

Protect his information.

Someone had noticed that he was awake, because there was a sharp noise at the door. Two men, not his original captors, came into his limited view. And - son of a bitch - one of them was his old schoolmate, Gregory Goyle. He wondered where his erstwhile twin, Vincent Crabbe, was, then remembered he'd scuttled off to Durmstrang before the war began. Smart guy. Smarter than Goyle - but then, that wasn't saying anything. He must not be near DE headquarters, if these two were the big guns sent to interrogate him. Dean began to have another idea, although his muzzy brain understandably wasn't working with any clarity at the moment.

"Gregory Goyle," he muttered. Well, he'd been wrong about the healing - someone had fixed his jaw, at least. The better to spill his guts, he concluded.

If he hadn't been probably the only black man Goyle had ever known, he doubted if the Death Eater could have recognized him with all his injuries.

"Shit. Dean Thomas." Dean waited for any clue as to how the recognition would be relevant.

"Yeah, Goyle. Long time no see, huh."

No answer.

"So where am I anyway?"

That jarred Goyle into answering, at least.

"I'll ask the questions." But he wasn't in much of a hurry, apparently, because his next comment was addressed to his companion. "This arsehole was at Hogwarts with me. A fucking Gryffindor, if you can believe that." They both laughed. "Damned house took anyone. Not like Slytherin."

Dean could have debated that point, given the example standing before him.

The other man spoke up for the first time. "Think he'll try to be brave then?"

"He'll try," Goyle replied. "Won't get him anywhere. Not when we give him Veritaserum."

He saw the opening he was hoping - praying - for. "You're too late, Goyle. It was already given. Your friends who captured me got a little overanxious."

Everything hung on his lie. Dean was counting on the bane of groups everywhere - piss-poor communication. Did his captors have time to give a report? Did Goyle or his partner even hear it? Would they believe this story without checking? Did Goyle remember, through his dense brain, that too much Veritaserum could damage their prisoner and leave him useless?

The long silence became almost unbearable.

Goyle's partner piped up. "So what did you tell them?"

Shit. Not even a decent question to get the ball rolling. Even with the effects of his beating taking an increasing toll on his thought process, he was still able to keep ahead of these two. Apparently this DE was every bit as stupid as Goyle, which was a blessing, he supposed, but it left him struggling to answer with something that sounded like it could be the truth.

"Everything," he answered, with a little snarl. "What do you think? Not like I could avoid it."

The two interrogators, if they could be graced with that name, shared smiles. Goyle said to his partner, "This'll be simple, Bryce." He turned to Dean. "Who were you with out there?"

Easy. "Colin Creevey. Neville Longbottom. Susan Diehl." All long escaped by now.

He heard the distinctive sound of quill on parchment, pegging it to a Quick-Quotes Quill set up somewhere. He didn't bother to look for it.

"What were you doing there?"

"Sleeping." God, had these two ever questioned anyone before?

Even Bryce seemed irritated by the lame question. "Why were you in the area, arsehole?

Better. "We had a report of DE activity in the area outside of town."

"Here in Wentworth?" Dean filed away the fact that they hadn't moved him far from the small town where he was captured. Where Seamus was scouting, in fact, and likely still unaware that things had gone pear-shaped.

"Yes."

"What were you looking for?" Bryce asked.

"We were looking for your unit - but they found me first."

"Maybe we knew you were there," Goyle boasted. Dean sincerely doubted it - otherwise the rest of his group would be relaxing here with him, enjoying the DE hospitality. Suddenly he was seized with fear that they _had_ been captured after all, and were tucked away in cells of their own.

Those fears were quickly dismissed with Bryce's next question. "Where did your buddies go?"

"Don't know," he answered, truthfully. Far away, he suspected. Because item four for captured Order members was _don't expect rescue_.

The two seemed to have run out of questions. Goyle asked his partner, "What else should we ask?"

Bryce thought a bit - _don't hurt yourself there_ , Dean thought caustically - and answered, "I don't know. Doesn't matter, does it? They'll do this again when the dose wears off. They'll give him more and ask all these questions again."

His stomach turned at those words. No way could he keep up this deception with another, presumably smarter interrogation team. Unless he came up with a compelling distraction.

_At any cost._

Goyle looked bored. "Stupid Gryffindor. Didn't get you too far, all that bravery."

Bryce looked at him carefully. "Isn't Potter a Gryffindor?"

"Yeah. They were roommates." The obvious question hit them at the same time.

"So do you know where Potter is, then?"

Dean nearly sighed with relief. "No," he lied. He struggled against an abrupt and overwhelming surge of dizziness and fatigue - concussion, probably, he thought weakly.

"How about anyone else? Is anyone else running around nearby?"

He paused, looked like he was struggling not to answer, then muttered, "Yes."

_At any cost._

"Who?"

"Seamus Finnigan."

"Where is he?"

_At any cost._

The agony he felt relentlessly crushed him, as he heard himself deliberately betray the location of his best friend.

* * *

He awoke to the noise of the guards opening the door and leading in an immobilized Seamus Finnigan. They roughly shoved him down with a _Finite incantatem_ , carelessly aimed, which also served to release Dean from his own invisible bonds.

"Dean. God, it's good to see you. Well, not here, of course. Shit, what did they do to you? You look bloody awful."

He fought back tears. "Hey, Seamus."

His friend noticed his distraught state, and began to comfort him, which made it even worse.

"Don't. I think I can work it out. Veritaserum."

He could only helplessly stare at Seamus. God, his makeshift plan had seemed rational just hours ago. Everything hinged on Dean avoiding Veritaserum, because if he couldn't, he'd be forced to tell the enemy about Potter and the Order's final plans. The only distraction he had been able to come up with in his panic was Seamus. His friend knew nothing he shouldn't, hadn't heard the final plans. He was safe to give up. If only the Death Eaters took that bait, maybe, just maybe, they'd forget about him and question Seamus.

And then they'd both die. But the Order would be safe.

But the reality was here, talking with him, joking with him in his inimitable way, blithely thinking Dean innocent of the betrayal that had brought him here.

He'd already decided, concretely and finally, that he wasn't going to go to his death letting Seamus think he was innocent. He had to confess. He needed Seamus to hate him for what he had done, because he hated himself for it.

He hadn't betrayed the Order. Instead, he'd betrayed his best friend. And deep down, hidden in the place where these things really mattered, he couldn't truthfully say that he hadn't needed Seamus to be here with him. Something in him craved Seamus, profoundly desired the final comfort of the one person who had meant so much to him all these years. He didn't want to die alone.

He crawled over to the other man, ignoring the pain from his earlier beating, ignoring the tears that were streaming down his face, and pulled himself into Seamus' arms. Together they held each other tightly, fear and desperation drawing them close. Finally, Dean drew back enough so that his lips were poised to whisper the venomed words he needed to say, hidden from any listening captors - to pour into Seamus' ear the poisonous truth of his betrayal.

Seamus sat in shocked silence, and his tears fell unhindered. Dean could only watch in misery, accepting any condemnation that Seamus wanted to utter, because he deserved it all, that and worse. His repeated whispers of " _I'm so sorry_ " echoed again and again, but Seamus seemed incapable of hearing him.

They sat in silence for hours.

Loud boots woke them both from their stupor. Goyle and Bryce were back, yelling at them to stand up. Seamus unfolded himself from his crouch and slowly stood, but Dean, with his numerous injuries, wasn't able. Bryce yanked him roughly to his feet, and Dean fought to ignore the pain and not pass out.

Another confining spell was cast at them. He found himself thrown back against the wall and pinned there somehow, although his arms and legs were free to move. Seamus was similarly held next to him.

"Your turn, Finnigan," Goyle said darkly. He had a clear bottle in his hand. A short step, a forced twist of Seamus' jaw, and the Veritaserum was given. The Quick-Quotes Quill was back, too.

Dean was ignored.

The same questions were shot at Seamus - who, where, why - but Dean's guess had paid off: the other man knew nothing of any use.

"These two are pretty worthless," Goyle finally admitted, and Bryce agreed. "They won't be much of a loss to the Order, anyway. Didn't seem like they did anything important."

He could almost taste their deaths coming now. He had done what he had to; the information was safe. The cost had been enormous.

"Dean." A whispered name, the smallest of sounds, but his heart surged at the word.

He turned his by now aching head so that he could see Seamus, who was facing him as much as he could manage within the constraints of the binding spell. Slowly, ever so slowly, the other man raised his arm and stretched his hand out, towards Dean, closer and closer. In response, he lifted his own hand to meet him. Their hands touched tenuously, clasped tightly, almost painfully, but every moment they were connected was a sanctified interlude of release.

"Forgiven," Seamus finally said in a choked voice. "You are forgiven."

Dean's eyes closed in disbelief, but he wanted to see, to see that face, to bask in that look of redemption just once more, and if that was the last thing he would ever see on this earth, it was enough. It was enough.

Seamus smiled at him. "Number three."

 _Protect your information._ With gratification, bathed in forgiveness, he relaxed. Seamus understood.

He replied, "Number four."

_Expect no rescue._

There was no number five, but if he could add one right at that moment, it would be _don't get your hopes up._ Because just then, in the aftermath of their reconciliation, the cell door banged opened, and he recognized the two men who strode in. He knew instantly, with cold and deadly certainty, that his last-ditch game was over and he was well and truly fucked. And that Seamus had been sacrificed for nothing.

There stood Draco Malfoy. Followed, in all his magisterial dignity, by Severus Snape. Even Goyle and Bryce looked alarmed.

Malfoy made his way to the parchment and quill and perused it, holding back any caustic comments, although Dean could see he was struggling with his restraint. Wordlessly, he thrust the paper at Snape, who quickly scanned it.

Snape came closer to Dean, and the attention of everyone in the room was focused on the imposing man. Still, no one spoke. He held Snape's steady gaze, waiting for a word, a question, a blow - nothing. Just that piercing stare. Unbidden, all of Dean's unspeakable secrets came to him one by one: the lie about Veritaserum given to him, the whereabouts of Harry Potter, what he knew about the Order's plans for the final battle. And still Snape remained silent through long anxious minutes.

Abruptly, Snape turned and walked to the door. "Draco," he barked. Malfoy moved to follow him without hesitation. Before leaving, Snape tossed out the order, "Wait," to Goyle and Bryce, then the two senior Death Eaters were gone.

Dean couldn't begin to fathom what had just happened, and judging from their reaction, neither could Goyle and Bryce.

"Wait for what?" Goyle complained.

Bryce mumbled, "For someone to come back, I reckon."

Dean reckoned, too. And he wasn't looking forward to it. They all settled in and waited. He exchanged nervous glances with Seamus.

Finally, the door reopened; this time only Malfoy came in. If Dean thought the last exchange was the strangest event he'd experienced so far, he was about to be proven wrong. Dramatically wrong.

Malfoy had lost his calm facade sometime between leaving and returning, and Dean could feel the tension radiating from him in waves. When he spoke, Malfoy's voice was almost hoarse with stress. "Dean Thomas."

To Dean's utter amazement, Malfoy walked up to him, leaned in, took his face in his slender, pale hands, and kissed him deeply.

He couldn't make sense of Malfoy's behavior. In shock, he found his lips responding automatically, but the only thing in his head was one word: _Judas._ Betraying his friend with a kiss.

Malfoy broke the shocked silence. "I'm sorry that you're here, Dean. Even given what we were to each other, everything we did together - none of that can save you. You joined the wrong side."

_What in hell was he talking about?_

"Even though I loved you, Dean, and you said you loved me, it doesn't matter anymore. You and your Gryffindor friend are going to die."

He struggled not to look at Seamus for help. Whatever was going on here, he had to pay attention, because so far, things weren't making any sense. Had Malfoy gone round the twist?

The sound of the quill was the only noise in the room.

"I wish things could have been different," Malfoy continued. He leaned in for another kiss, and Dean could only give it to him. "I still love you, you know."

He heard Bryce, contempt evident in his voice, mutter, "Shit, Malfoy, get a room."

Malfoy ignored the taunt and continued to caress and kiss a bewildered Dean. To his embarrassment, his body was beginning to respond to the bizarre attention.

Malfoy looked at him sharply, but his voice was deceptively soft. "I'll always love you."

His disorientation had grown to such a staggering intensity that he no longer felt connected to anything in this world. He stole a look at Seamus, but his friend's expression showed him that he was every bit as floored by the strange display. Malfoy was fawning over him now in a disturbing pantomime of obsession, but hidden just below the surface, Dean thought he recognized intense anger and something like despair. But he was spared from digging for an answer when Malfoy gently placed his index finger across his lips.

"Don't say anything. Nothing you can say would help at all right now."

Was his confused brain conjecturing some kind of message in that?

With one final kiss, Malfoy backed slowly away and drew out his wand. "You don't know how sorry I am for this. Goodbye."

He couldn't watch. Closing his eyes, he waited to hear the words of the killing curse, hoping he'd be hit first so that he wouldn't have to hear Seamus being murdered. He wondered if he'd see the green light through his closed lids or feel the pain for very long.

" _Stupefy._ "

He jerked his eyes open fast enough to see Goyle and Bryce hit the floor, stunned.

" _Finite incantatem_."

The binding spell ended, and he and Seamus lurched forward. With his injuries unhealed, he couldn't brace himself fast enough, but Malfoy caught him before he hit the floor.

"Darling." The word was tender but the tone was chilling. "I couldn't kill you. But there's no time. We've got to get out of here now. We can't Apparate from this building, though. We'll have to Floo." Malfoy was snapping out instructions as though he hadn't just declared undying passion to his prisoner, as though he hadn't just stunned his two compatriots, as though any of this made sense.

"Can you walk? No? Finnigan, hang on to him, then. You're too awake for _mobilicorpus_ , and I don't want to knock you out, lover. How about a mild levitation spell?" He muttered a word of a spell Dean had never heard before. He felt himself grow inexplicably lighter, and Seamus was able to bear his weight easily.

"Okay, now comes the tricky part. We've got to get to the Floo from a room down the hall, sweetheart, so I'm taking you out at wandpoint. Do exactly what I say and don't fuck up, and we may just make it out of here alive. If we don't, well...I reckon we've already kissed goodbye." He laughed mirthlessly, and his customary cynical tone was back. "Ready?"

* * *

_My back to the wall, a victim of laughing chance._  
Deacon Blues - Steely Dan

. . . . . . . .

They ended up tumbling out of the Floo into a nondescript room in an apparently empty house. Dean couldn't begin to guess their location beyond that.

Seamus finally found his voice. "Draco Malfoy. A spy for the Order?"

And there, finally, was that familiar sneer, that caustic tone, that he remembered from school, and the world began to right itself at last. "Ten fucking points to Gryffindor. Brilliant, Finnigan. Do you lay awake nights coming up with these amazing revelations, then?"

Beneath that icy exterior, Dean could tell he was still angry - furious, in fact.

Seamus, predictably, responded to the ridicule. "Damn you, Malfoy, just answer the question. What's going on?"

Malfoy rounded on Seamus, and he thought they were going to come to blows. _"What's going on_ is that I just saved your sorry arses from the Death Eaters. I thought that much was obvious, even to you."

He interceded quickly, before the situation got even more out of hand. "Sorry, Malfoy. You'll have to forgive us. We've had a bad day." He spread his hands with mute appeal in what he hoped was his best conciliatory manner. "But thanks."

Malfoy didn't answer, although his anger was still apparent.

"So the big question I have then, is why? Why did you save us?"

Malfoy turned that anger on him like a torch. "Because you knew too fucking much. That's why." He was nearly panting now with emotion. "Because for some stupid reason you were captured knowing too fucking much, Thomas, and you know it." He was shouting. "You fucking know it, too, don't you?"

He could only agree. "Yes."

Malfoy was on a rant and wasn't going to be stopped. "And did you know that, Finnigan? He had to sell you out for that? He was willing to have you killed, too, to cover up his own stupidity. Some friend."

Dean couldn't look at Seamus right then, even knowing that his friend knew all this and had forgiven him anyway. He couldn't face that again - but he had to.

But Seamus spoke up first. "I know it, Malfoy. I know it. He told me already, okay? He needed to know all that shit, and he got caught before he could be memory charmed. It's done. Anyway, that's not your business, is it?"

"I wish it weren't my business. Fuck." He sputtered into silence.

Something was still bothering Dean, though. "How do you know what I know, Malfoy?"

Something in his question made Malfoy sit down heavily on a tattered armchair nearby. He tipped his head back with something approaching exhaustion, ran a hand roughly through his hair. "From Snape. Snape's a Legilimens. He read your thoughts. When he realized what you knew, he came up with a plan to get you the hell out of there. You couldn't be questioned again under Veritaserum. Too much was at stake."

 _At any cost, then_ , he thought wearily.

Draco wasn't finished. "But what we didn't work out was how you managed to keep the information secret the first time you were hit with the Veritaserum."

Dean smiled for the first time in what seemed like ages. "They never gave it to me. I told Bryce that they already had, and he fell for it."

That surprised both Malfoy and Seamus. "Bloody clever," Seamus said, and Malfoy added, "Bryce is a brainless wanker. There's one good thing out of this - I won't have to put up with his stupidity any more." He noticed that Malfoy left Goyle out of his censure - he supposed out of loyalty for his long-time friend. He could understand that kind of loyalty, even if he couldn't seem to practice it.

"Why not?" Seamus blurted out.

That enraged Malfoy again. "Why not? Why the fuck do you think, arsehole?" He glared at Seamus as though he'd like nothing more than to have him under Cruciatus right then. "Think I can waltz back to Death-Eater-Land after what I just pulled? Helping two prisoners escape? Like I should just scurry back now, all _sorry-don't-know-what-got-into-me_?" He flung his head back again in disgust. "And I though Bryce was stupid."

That explained the depth of Malfoy's anger. He'd disgraced himself in the eyes of the Death Eater - permanently - to free them. Things were starting to make more sense.

One more question, though. "And the kissing and, um..."

"Ah. Got off on that, did you?" Malfoy's face was twisted into a parody of a smile. "Sorry to disappoint you, Thomas. All an act." He laughed humorlessly. "Finnigan looks relieved, anyway."

"But what-"

"Cover for Snape, of course. Senseless to sacrifice both of us. Obviously his little Malfoy protege has a secret passion for one of the prisoners and helped them escape. All got down by that Quick-Quotes Quill and witnessed by two loyal henchmen, of course. Snape won't be held responsible." He eyed Seamus with a gleam. "You had a fifty-fifty chance at carnal delight, Finnigan. But I reckoned that Thomas here wouldn't scream the bloody place down. I wasn't so sure about you."

Seamus, in a far more respectful tone than he'd yet been able to muster, asked quietly, "How long have you been a spy, then?"

Malfoy sighed. "Since fifth year. So then, three years. All wasted now, of course." He raised an eyebrow at Seamus, then Dean. "Surprised? Don't be. I learned lying and deceit from the best."

"From Snape."

"From Snape," Malfoy agreed. "Although Father began the lessons. You might say I was born to it, really."

Suddenly, exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, and he stretched back with a hiss. "And now what?" he breathed.

"Now I get to send you on your way. Lucky you."

"Any chance you might muster up some healing charms first?" he managed to ask. "Our wands are gone."

"Oh, nearly forgot. I've been a little busy, forgive me," Malfoy said, pulling out their missing wands and tossing them out with an elegant flick. "Nice of the night patrol not to have destroyed them, wouldn't you say?"

"A surprise," he agreed. "One of many, actually."

Malfoy, calmer than he'd been since their first meeting today, spent a few minutes repairing the worst of Dean's injuries. "That should get you where you're going."

"And where are we going?" Seamus asked.

Malfoy gave him a sardonic look. "Where would you like to go? Some lovely vacation spot? Paris, perhaps? Tahiti?" They were standing now. "Or just back to the daily grind?"

Dean made a decision. "Grimmauld Place."

"Of course. Always popular with our vacationers this time of year."

"Are you coming with us?"

"I think not. Although I'm not sure where I'm headed. To tell you the truth, I didn't wake up this morning expecting to be outed before lunch. So much for me having a long shelf life. Right now, Tahiti is sounding better and better."

Dean made a quick decision and thrust out his hand. Malfoy accepted it with apparent surprise. "Thanks, Malfoy. For everything. I'm sorry how it turned out for you. We owe you, big time, you know."

Malfoy nodded slightly. "Too bad you'll only remember the favor for, oh about 10 more seconds." Dean jerked his head up nervously at the other man's words. "Come on, Thomas, you don't think I'm prepared to let you keep this memory? Not after everything else?"

He shook his head in resignation. "No."

Malfoy grimaced. "Okay, then." He raised his wand to Seamus. "Obliviate." A toss of floo powder, then "Twelve Grimmauld Place." Seamus disappeared. Dean's eyes flickered in the dim light from the fire, and he willingly stepped forward. The last things he experienced were the words of the memory charm and the sadness of pale, grey eyes.

* * *

"Good lord. Where did you come from, then?" The surprised greeting was blunt. Dean lurched with less grace than usual into the sitting room of what he recognized as 12 Grimmauld Place. He turned automatically to the voice, which turned out to be that of Remus Lupin. Seamus had apparently just Flooed in before him, and his friend seemed as confused as he felt.

"Not sure," he answered. "I remember-" The last thing he remembered was betraying the location of Seamus to the Death Eaters, but he wasn't prepared to go into that. What the hell had happened? How did he escape? "I was captured. I don't know how I got away."

At those words, Lupin abruptly stood up.

Seamus added, "I was in Wentworth, asleep. I don't know how I ended up here."

Dean had the presence of mind to look at his hands just then. A simple Order trick - if you're about to be Obliviated, for whatever reason, use the alphabet created by deaf Muggles to leave yourself a clue.

Each of his hands had formed a letter. Two letters. D. M.

Seamus turned his own gaze down. His hands formed the same letters. D. M.

* * *

_Acordei de um sonho estranho_  
um gosto de vidro e corte  
Um sabor de chocolate no corpo e na cidad  
Um sabor de vida e morte ...Com sabor de vidro e corte  
As horas não se contavam,  
e o que era negro anoiteceu  
Enquanto acontecia, Eu estava em San Vicente  
  
[I woke up from a strange dream  
in a place of glass and wounds  
A taste of chocolate in the body and the town  
A taste of life and death ... A taste of glass and wounds  
Hours that couldn't be counted  
and what was black became night.  
While it happened I was in St. Vincent]  
San Vicente - Milton Nascimento (Portuguese lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

There were rumors that the Order's final battle plan took months to prepare. The first six weeks alone were spent debating over whether it could even be pulled off successfully, but Dean didn't hear the details until much later.

The key element, the one detail that couldn't be ignored, was that the climax of the battle had to be a confrontation between Harry Potter and Voldemort. Reasons for that were a closely-kept secret; Dean was not privy to it, nor did he want to be.

Like any good battle plan, this one depended on several good spies within the enemy's inner circle. Snape was one - he couldn't believe that his former Potions master was still buried in the Dark Lord's ranks after nearly two years. No one in the Order had seen him these last nine months; it took three long weeks and seven connections to get the plans to him at all. He heard rumors of another hidden spy - one to watch Snape, he supposed - but that name, too, was closely guarded. The war had dragged on long enough that dissatisfaction was no doubt festering in one or two of their own troops. Traitors could exist in their midst as well. So preparations were made in great secrecy and with much misleading groundwork. One week, he and his squad practiced Quidditch - never really one of his favorite activities. The next week followed with a flurry of potions, first prepared and then imbibed, to his stomach's misfortune. They faltered through exercises in holding a position for hours, deliberate disorientation of their sleep cycles, night-time prowling, close-quarter fighting, micro-Apparating - all or none of which might come in to play.

* * *

After two years with the Death Eaters, Severus Snape had lost none of the elegant yet icy demeanor he'd shown as a Hogwarts professor, sweeping into the temporary council room and bowing low to the imposing figure seated there.

"My Lord," he intoned, with as much deference he could summon. "Harry Potter has been located."

Nothing he could announce, he knew, excited as much interest from their commander as that name. It had been nearly their sole focus for the past month, causing the Death Eaters to neglect far more important strategic targets in the off-chance of somehow coming upon the young man unaware and unprotected. Snape wasn't the only one to know it was a serious weakness; others among the top echelon of Death Eaters doubted the wisdom of focusing on such a seemingly personal target. But Snape knew the prophecy - Potter was key to ending the war, for good or ill.

He had the Dark Lord's full attention.

"What news?" was the response from - man or creature, Snape never knew from one moment to the next. Even Lucius was distracted enough from his court intrigues to turn to listen, though his compatriot couldn't erase the distaste on his face. There was no love lost between them since Snape's return to the Dark Lord's service. More recently, he had carefully manipulated the blame for Draco's defection so that it fell far more heavily against Lucius than against him. Lucius bore him great hatred for that. No matter, thought Snape. I don't trust him either, and he is wise not to trust me. Let's hope he never knows why.

He brought every acting skill he had to bear on this pronouncement, critical as it was for the final battle. One last chance, one thin window of opportunity. If this plan failed, he was sure he would be killed.

"Potter has been run to ground outside a small town called St. Vincent. Dumbledore has been tracked to the Ministry, and Potter is lightly guarded - a patrol at most. Our surveillance team found him early this morning and has been watching him for the past three hours. They report that he seems to be settling in there for at least a night." Snape withdrew a scroll of parchment and passed it over, making certain that his hand betrayed no tremble to disclose his nerves.

Voldemort read the report dispassionately, then handed it wordlessly to Lucius. Snape watched in silence as Malfoy scanned the scroll with his usual scowl. He was careful to make no further comment - his task here was only to bear the information. Any further attempt to encourage action on their part would be more than unwelcome - it would be suspicious. Others would plan any attack without his help. All he could do was wait.

But the time dragged out interminably.

"And so, we have him now," Voldemort finally said, and Snape was careful not to show his relief. "Prepare the attack, as we have planned. Our men have practiced for this opportunity. It is time to unleash them."

The men around Voldemort moved swiftly into action, dispatching commands with the rough assurance of those used to being instantly obeyed. Most of them left for duties they were only too glad to perform - or too fearful of failing to perform. Snape remained quietly at Voldemort's side.

"Severus. We've waited too long for this moment. Soon, Harry Potter will be no more than a bad memory. With their boy icon defeated, the rest of Dumbledore's shabby Muggle-lovers will collapse like a riverbank under flood. Washed away. And we'll be victorious at last."

"Victorious at last," Snape echoed, and believed every word.

* * *

"Carmichael, David?"

The man nodded in response, and his hand reached out automatically to receive the package from the taciturn supply sergeant. Orders barked out earlier had made clear that they were to hold and not open the small bundle, and he wasn't even tempted to disobey, although he sensed that he was in the minority. Weeks of preparations for _something_ had everyone generally on edge, but he alone, it seemed, sensed its immediacy in the air this morning.

"Franklin says it'll be hand-to-hand combat practice," the man next to him muttered, but he didn't put any faith in the ubiquitous rumors of an army at war. No one had yet managed to predict any of the exercises they'd run through to date; today would be no different. He didn't even bother to answer.

In the past three weeks he'd been with this company of soldiers, he'd managed to stay alive by keeping his head down and his mouth shut. It was a pattern he'd grown used to in the past year of the war as he skipped from unit to unit, blending in, but never staying for long in one place. True, he had no friends in these ranks, but he had no enemies either, and he counted that far more to his credit.

This morning they'd risen early, gotten a rather decent breakfast for the conditions, heard a few limited commands, and had settled into the hurry-up-and-wait that was so common to life during wartime. He'd managed to find and settle up against a thin tree, which offered a tiny dry spot in the general dampness of a wet morning, content to wait and appreciate the quiet.

Lucy Gallestino, their squad leader, strode over - if it could be called that; the woman was decidedly short - with last-minute instructions to pass on.

"Everyone's got their packets issued, right?" she asked brusquely.

"What's in it?" came back from someone in the back, but she didn't even bother looking up.

"Okay, now I need you to bare your stomachs and left legs," she barked, in a tone that brooked no more stupid questions, as though the order made perfect sense. And for an army at war, it probably did.

Brinkley, usually the commander of rear security, had a scroll and something else in his hand that was too fat for a wand.

Lucy was still talking. "Everyone gets a number. Like this." Brinkley checked something on the scroll, then took the thing in his hand and wrote a number on her stomach and leg that stood out in bold black relief on her skin. She was doubly marked in this fashion with the number 87.

The usual bantering comments, silly innuendos, and nervous remarks accompanied Brinkley as he proceeded to number everyone in the squad. He deliberately avoided looking at Brinkley as he was marked with a sloppy 114 in both places, but he felt a sudden chill at the implication.

"Okay, cover it up, then. I've seen enough of your bare skin for so early in the morning," Lucy declared. "And come over here by me, and I'll tell you what's happening today. In a very short time, we expect to be engaged in the pivotal battle of the War, so pay attention."

The banter and muttered asides stopped as suddenly as if she'd cast a silencing charm. Farther off, the other groups were all similarly transfixed.

"A trap has been set to draw in the Death Eater elite - all the way to the top." Although the Order's army had been encouraged to use Voldemort's name, some still found it impossible after years of avoidance. "The bait has successfully lured the enemy. We believe they're preparing to walk into the trap, and we'll be ready."

What followed were the nuts and bolts of any battle plan - how the details applied to them in particular. How they'd get in, and more importantly, how they'd get out. Where everyone else was supposed to be, and what to do in case they weren't. How the current orders were to be passed on, and how to stop the rumors. And what to do if everything went to hell in a hurry.

"For most of the battle, we hope to keep you up on your brooms, because the DEs have shown their real weakness in the air. It's like they can't think three-dimensionally the way we can. Looks like the side of Light ended up with all the Quidditch players," she joked, and a few appreciative laughs came back at that. "Okay, now comes the twist you've been waiting for. Go ahead and open your bundles."

All around him, hands were ripping into packages. He pulled out each item slowly, identifying what he could as he did. Nondescript clothing and shoes. A large unbreakable flask, heavy and full, filled with a dark, opaque potion that he recognized immediately - _Polyjuice_. And at the bottom, a carefully protected item, which he carefully unwrapped and held in his hands with sudden recognition: a pair of glasses that were only slightly less identifiable than their famous wearer.

He almost laughed out loud at the irony. He was going to Polyjuice into Harry Potter. They all were - a whole bloody army of Potters.

"Listen up, folks. You've had enough training with Polyjuice, so you should be able to choke the shit down, at least. I think you've cottoned on as to who you're going to end up as. And the glasses aren't only for looks - you'll need them to see properly, so be careful with them. If you lose yours, find me or another squad leader for another pair."

All around him, the glasses were proving to be a major fascination. No one else seemed to be able to resist trying them on. "I can't see," came a petulant voice.

"Don't be such an imbecile," Lucy shot back. "You won't be able to see until you've turned into Potter." She muttered under her breath, " _Idiot_."

The offender squeaked an apology.

She continued, unfazed. "As you know, Potter is an excellent natural flyer, so you'll find that's a real advantage in the air. And for Merlin's sake, don't forget to take another dose every hour." She held up the flask for emphasis. "Remind each other."

A tentative hand went up from the woman beside him. "Why are we all supposed to become Harry Potter, though? Not that I mind, of course. Can you tell us that?"

"Yes, I can. For undisclosed reasons, Potter has become the Death Eater's main target. They've been tracking him for months, and they think they're closing in on him now. We're there to confuse the issue and at the same time break the DE army."

So Potter was the bait for their trap. Or was he? Would they risk the real Boy-Who-Lived? Or more likely, was it actually Dumbledore waiting there, Polyjuiced to appear as Potter? As their most powerful wizard, he would be a more formidable surprise to attacking Death Eaters. If, as Lucy had said, this battle was pivotal, that could only mean they expected the Dark Lord to show up. The side of Light would bring out the big guns, not some 19-year-old mascot with a streak of good luck.

"We'll have about twenty minutes to get used to Potter's body. You'll want to put on his clothes before you make the change, unless you want to ruin your own." The group politely turned their backs on each other and studiously avoided getting caught checking anyone out. "Everyone ready? Bottoms up."

He managed to down the potion without the grimaces that his colleagues made. Stoically, he suffered through the dizziness and painful transfiguration into a body not his own. No matter how many times he'd practiced, he never became accustomed to the horrible shock of changing into someone else, but now he was especially glad that no one had a mirror. He noticed his blurred vision wasn't clearing, then belatedly remembered to put on the glasses. There - better.

"Fifteen minutes. Check for your wands. Go get your brooms, then come back here. We'll Portkey in groups."

"Hey, who are you?" he heard in a voice from the distant past, and looked up with alarm. The sight of a dozen Harry Potters surrounding him was jarring and unreal.

"I'm Carmichael," he answered in the same familiar voice. "Who are you?"

"I'm Bevell," was the reply. "This is bizarre, isn't it?"

"No shit."

"So this explains the numbers," Bevell said. "So we can tell who's who. But really, it seems silly. We can always just ask each other, you know?"

Bevell really was thick. "Not if we're dead," he snapped.

Bevell visibly paled, but apparently didn't have the sense to shut up. "Oh, yeah." He shrugged it off. "This must be really weird for the women. You know, getting all new equipment, so to speak. I can't stand it myself. I mean, if I just take a piss, there I am with my hands on someone else's dick. Makes me feel like a bloody fag."

He didn't have the tiniest desire right now to talk to a Harry Potter look-alike about anything, let alone the obvious topics that were always brought up by someone - usually Bevell - about the sexual aspect of changing into someone else. He was not going to check out his new equipment unless he had to. Turning away, he rummaged for the trainers and shoved his now slightly larger feet into them.

Potter's body wasn't a whole lot different than his own - a little more awkward, although maybe that was just the initial disconnect caused by transformation. He practiced reaching, kneeling, turning - nothing too disorienting so far.

And flying in this body, on his stripped down, scuffed up Firebolt was pure pleasure.

* * *

If Dean hadn't been standing next to Seamus when the Polyjuice took effect, he would have never known him.

"Mary and all the saints, Dean. Look at you."

"Look at yourself, Seamus."

"I feel like I went to sleep and woke up at a Harry Potter convention. It's the oddest thing I've ever seen." He looked around with an expression of wonder on his borrowed face.

Dean flexed his arms and shook out his legs after the painful transformation. "So this is what it's like."

"Fuck. I've never been a Potter wanna-be in my whole life. This isn't likely to change my mind, you know what I'm saying?" Seamus laughed, and it wasn't Seamus' laugh at all, but Harry's. "Now for someone like Draco Malfoy, who always wanted to _be_ Harry, it'd be like a wet dream come true."

He thought of something. "Listen, Seamus, how are we supposed to recognize each other? In the heat of battle, you know?"

Seamus looked concerned. "Well, I'm not about to flash you my bloody number every few minutes, you pervert. Let's come up with a code word."

"Playing at spies again? All right. What should we use?"

"How about the neighborhoods we grew up in? That's something the DEs wouldn't know or understand."

"Okay. Then I'm Barking and you're Finglas."

"Right."

They spent the next twenty minutes becoming accustomed to Harry's body, until Dean began to feel more comfortable with its abilities. Most disconcerting was the difference in height - he was usually the tallest person in any group, even beating out Ron Weasley. He'd once vowed never to travel to America where he'd undoubtedly be badgered with basketball references - he'd heard enough about that even in Britain. He'd always thought of Harry as short, but with everyone around him the same height - hell, the same everything - his frame of reference had vanished.

It was all too strange.

Their unit leader rounded them up and held out a Portkey - a rather ratty-looking Ravenclaw scarf, long enough to offer them all a handhold on it.

"See you on the other side, Dean," he heard, before the tugging feeling overcame him.

* * *

_Bayeza abafana bancane wema,_  
Baphethe iqwasha, baphethe bazooka  
Bathi "Sangena savuma thina,  
Lapha abazange bengena abazali bethu, Nabadala..."  
  
[The young boys are coming,  
They carry homemade weapons and a bazooka.  
They say "We have agreed to enter a place  
that has never been entered before  
by our parents or our ancestors, and they cry for us..."]  
One Man, One Vote - Johnny Clegg (Zulu lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

Dean had gone through his share of reading battle scenes in books, and he was spoiled. In telling a war story, the author always made sure that the basic plans and strategies, the important movements, the actions of leaders and other key players, the ebb and flow of positions taken and retaken, and the glorious and triumphant conclusion were all laid out in a reasonably logical fashion.

Being in an actual battle was chaos.

 _If I live through this, I'll have to read the book_ , he thought in frustration. He felt as if he was flipping through images and understanding very little of any of it. Everything was too fast and too frantic to allow time enough for meaning to seep in. There were snatches of commands, dizzying pursuits and retreats, flashes of the enemy falling or charging, killing or being killed. Sometimes, he was alone for long minutes, only to be engulfed in a thundercloud of frenetic activity sweeping him in, then rolling past.

He paused long enough to gulp down a renewing dose of Polyjuice.

He lost track of Seamus after the first half-hour. He'd repeated _Barking_ to so many ersatz Harry Potters and received the same dumbfounded looks in return that he felt like he _was_ barking, and finally stopped. He should have caught on to Seamus' prank when he'd suggested using neighborhoods. He'd have to give him shit about it when this was over.

He didn't let himself think about Seamus not returning from this cacophony of noise and heat. He barely had time to think at all.

Fatigue was setting in when first one, and then more and more Harry Potters soared past with the news. "Have you heard? Potter's killed Voldemort. The DEs are cutting and running."

Not all the Death Eaters, unfortunately. Dean and his group were careful to allow an exit for the small patrol of DEs they'd engaged - no one fights as desperately as someone who thinks he's surrounded - but the imbeciles didn't catch on. His opponent nearly pinned him in a small stand of trees. One of the other Potters cottoned on to his predicament, but he was a bit too late. Dean slipped off his broom, felt his knee twist in a way that knees were not supposed to twist, and then give beneath his weight. The last thing he was aware of was a Stunning curse aimed at him.

* * *

One unfortunate side effect of Polyjuice Potion was that its duration could be counted on only if the drinker was conscious. If not, the transfigured appearance was extended for as much as a day, depending on when the stuff had been swallowed. Which meant that, by and large, Hermione and the medivac group had been recovering victim after victim who looked like Harry Potter. It was a psychological nightmare, not knowing who was injured, or who was dead - every victim looked like Harry.

By the time Dean woke up, though, nearly everyone, including him, was back in his or her own form.

From his vantage point, in a camp bed near the door, he watched the recovery team checking their patients, the tension around them so thick you could rupture it with the wrong word. One by one, body by body, Hermione's hands reached out, lifted a shirt to reveal the number and froze there until the corresponding name was announced - would it be a stranger or a friend? Dumbledore? Or even the real Harry?

"Number 114," Hermione reported to a young man toting a very Muggle clipboard.

"David Carmichael."

They all relaxed slightly, but then Dean felt a ripple of guilt at the brisk dismissal. Carmichael was someone he had fought beside for the past three weeks or so. He was a nondescript young man - he sounded like a Somerset native - with dirty-blond hair and dark, angry eyes. He rarely said much, didn't socialize, never mentioned any family, and was generally considered a loner and a misfit. But he had a good eye for observation, never backed away from a fight, and hated Voldemort more than nearly anyone he knew. Almost as much as Harry.

Poor sod.

"Dead?"

Hermione looked up at him, and smiled briefly in recognition. "Dean. I didn't notice you there. No, he's just knocked out. You know him?"

"Kind of. He's in our unit, anyway. Bit of an oddball. Glad he'll make it, though."

"How about you - are you doing okay?"

He returned the smile. "Yeah. I fell off my broom near the end, there, and messed up my knee. That's probably why I'm not playing for the Chudley Cannons." A poor joke, but she took it as the offering it was.

"But that wasn't really you - you can blame it on Harry, you know," she teased quietly.

"Right. A bit strange, that. Takes some getting used to, being that small. Not to mention keeping those glasses on the whole time. Hell, no wonder he's always smashing the bloody things." He grew somber. "Hermione - anyone I know here?"

Her mouth tightened at the question. "A few, Dean. I guess we should be grateful our losses were light, but yes. A few."

Her orders must have been to keep it quiet; he'd have to wait to see who they were, then, but he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Seamus?"

She relaxed slightly. "No. I saw him poke his nose in a while ago, looking for you, I think."

Her associate was looking at them impatiently, and Hermione turned back to her bleak duty with a final nod. "See you later, if I can."

He settled back against his pillow, trying to absorb details from the general confusion like the artist he was. Although he'd never draw this scene.

The Harry Potter that was Carmichael was stirring beside him, changing gradually back to himself. With growing curiosity, he focused on the other man, becoming immersed in watching the process as the Polyjuice ran its course. Skin began to bubble and alter, looking as though repulsive insects were crawling and feeding beneath it. He felt a little sick but couldn't look away. The dark hair began to lighten and grow, the features were settling down and becoming more recognizable. But something was wrong. The chin, the nose, the cheekbones - none of these were familiar from his nights patrolling with Carmichael. They were too pronounced, too angular, the hair was not the dark honey he knew it should be. He was on the verge of calling out to Hermione, to tell her she'd made a mistake, that she must have misread the number. But that urge abruptly vanished.

"Holy shit." The man next to him was no longer Harry Potter, but he wasn't David Carmichael, either. Eyes fluttered open at his outburst and fixed on him. "My god. Draco Malfoy."

For a strange instant, the face he'd just identified wavered, growing more and more like that of Carmichael, so that he had the unsettling perception that he was looking at two people at once. Then suddenly the pretense faded, and he was once again looking at his old Hogwarts schoolmate.

"I'm too weak," Malfoy muttered. "Can't maintain it any more."

Dean realized what he meant. "Some kind of glamour spell, then?"

"Yeah. What the hell happened to me out there? I feel like shit."

"I don't know."

"And the battle? What about-

"Voldemort's dead. It's over."

Malfoy's eyes closed, whether from outrage or relief, Dean didn't dare assume. Then he tentatively reopened them and gave him a thoughtful look.

"So. You're not screaming the place down, Thomas. Why is that?"

"No. I'm shocked, is all."

"Isn't it your duty to report a Death Eater spy?"

He took a long moment before answering, with Malfoy watching him like a hawk the whole time. "If you were a Death Eater spy, I'd report you, yes. But I'm not sure that's what you are. I don't know what you're doing here, but I- well. Anyone else would be screaming the place down, I suppose." He was slowly returning to solid ground. "But I know something they don't."

Malfoy didn't say anything, although his gaze continued to be intense.

"I don't know how, and I sure as hell don't know why, but somehow you rescued me and Seamus the night we were captured by DEs. We don't remember what happened. But it was you, I'm sure of it."

"You don't remember, but you think I saved you? What a bloody Gryffindor you are."

Dean knew that sarcasm for the defense it was. "Yeah, I am. A Gryffindor who knows who my friends are. But it sounds like you still aren't going to tell me what happened, are you?" He looked at the other man sharply, but got no reply. "You have your reasons, I suppose. Maybe someday that'll change. But I know what I know."

Malfoy let out a short huff of irritation. "What you know - well, I wouldn't put money on it."

"Do I know Carmichael? Or was there ever such a person?"

"No Carmichael. Only me."

Intrigued, Dean swung his legs around on his camp bed so he was facing Malfoy. "How did you manage to fool everyone?"

"You were the hardest - you knew me. Glamours only go so far. They're draining to keep up. I was careful never to be around you much. Only at night when the light was bad. Other times - well, let's just say I helped you believe what you wanted to believe. It's an old DE trick."

"You messed with my mind?"

Malfoy didn't answer.

"How long have you been at this? You've been with our group a couple of weeks-"

"Long enough. I move around."

"Why, though? Why are you here? Why the disguise?"

Malfoy glared at him. "Are you going to tell me I'd have been welcomed with open arms? Me? Son of Lucius Malfoy? Get real, Thomas."

Dean noticed that Malfoy had avoided the question of why he'd come in the first place, but he let it slide. Odds were he wouldn't have heard the truth.

"What will you do now?"

"Don't know." Malfoy managed a faint echo of his school-boy smirk before he closed his eyes one last time, turned on his side with a restrained groan, and faded back into unconsciousness.

He regarded him for a long moment. Then he reached over quietly and tugged the thin blanket higher, covering the other man's face and distinctively pale hair, and let him sleep.

* * *

_Melhor seria ser filho da outra_  
Outra realidade menos morta  
Tanta mentira, tanta força bruta  
  
It would be better to be the son of another,  
Another reality, one that's less dead  
So many lies, so much brute force.  
Calice - Gilberto Gil/Chico Buarque (Portuguese lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

 _What do you wear to your father's trial and probable execution?_ , Draco wondered, as he looked over his extensive wardrobe with a careworn eye.

Probably something that would also lend itself to a polite funeral appearance, he supposed, and he certainly had plenty of those robes to choose from. In the past weeks, he'd made an unwilling spectacle of himself, arriving unannounced at memorial services for members of the Order, earning himself stares and rude snubs from family members and friends who hadn't quite accepted the claims that he was one of the secret spies who had turned the war around.

Showing up at funerals had become, in part, another act of defiance, and, in part, a show of support for Severus. Draco was determined not to let their contributions to the victory pass unnoticed. He hadn't asked for his role any more than Potter had; he would be damned if he'd let the wizarding world forget it.

The worst, of course, was Dumbledore's funeral, an immense spectacle attended, it appeared, by everyone on the planet. After the first five minutes of glares and not-quite-muttered slurs, he'd stuck to Severus like a burr. Dumbledore, polyjuiced as Potter as he'd guessed, had struck the killing blow against Voldemort but by doing so had sacrificed his own life. Apparently there'd been some cryptic prophecy predicting that only Potter could kill the Dark Lord; in the ironic manner of prophecies, the disguised Dumbledore somehow fulfilled the condition.

The real Harry Potter had survived. Draco surprised himself by being grateful for it. Yet he'd fled Dumbledore's funeral before the elite Gryffindor collective escorting Potter had made an appearance.

He deftly thumbed through his closet. His mother would want him to appear respectful, despite the fact that he felt nothing remotely approaching that. His inclination was to show up at the door of the Ministry courtroom wearing Hufflepuff robes, or loud Muggle clothing, or maybe even pauper's rags. Anything to declare formally to the world that he and Lucius were not of the same lineage, the same family. The same universe.

He pushed aside a black linen robe - that would wrinkle too badly and the trial promised to be long - in favor of a dignified navy blue wool. For a brief moment, he toyed with wearing his Order of Merlin, but rejected that idea as pompous. No one watching him would know what to make of that gesture, anyway.

"Master Draco is visiting his mother before he is going?" Sully asked.

"Of course," he replied, not bothering to turn around.

His mother's new-found neutrality and Slytherin flexibility had come to her aid after Voldemort's defeat. Once Lucius was gone, she had let go of any visible affinity for the defeated side with amazing ease. Her pragmatic nature allowed the two of them to live together in studied politeness, if not true affection.

But her grief over Lucius was real enough.

He slipped in to his mother's bedroom, and his eyes slowly adjusted to its dimness. Narcissa wasn't sleeping; she waited quietly in the near-darkness, watching him approach her bed with pale, unblinking eyes. Everyone had agreed that her presence was uncalled-for at the trial - even without considering that she'd been spending days on end under the effects of some kind of potion that Severus had pressed upon her days ago. It seemed to calm her as nothing else - including her son - had.

"Good morning, Mother," he said, as he lightly kissed her thin, pallid cheek.

" _Lumos_ ," she said in response, causing the lights to gradually glow brighter. He almost wished she'd left the room dim, because he hated to see her so despondent. "You look very nice."

He didn't respond to the compliment. "I'll be gone all day. Redmund will owl you as soon as anything is decided." He pretended for her sake that the outcome wasn't already certain. As though the only decision left to be made wasn't between immediate death or a dementor's kiss.

"Desiree Crabbe has promised to come and wait with me this afternoon if she could get away."

He hoped for her sake that her sometime friend would make the effort, which was by no means guaranteed. Mrs. Crabbe faced the same situation herself next week when her husband would have his own trial, and she'd find herself needing the same support. Still, he'd heard from Sully that the other woman wasn't often sober by afternoon.

"I'd better be going. The Floo network at the Ministry will be overloaded if I wait any longer."

She nodded slowly but didn't say anything.

He hesitated, not wanting to draw this out but feeling like he should tell her something comforting. What that might be remained elusive - false reassurance was out of the question. "It will be over soon."

Her head lifted slightly. "And you won't be called to testify?"

"No." More than enough informants longed to bear witness against Lucius, and the Aurors were feeling uncharacteristically generous with him.

"That's good, then." She looked away, and he gave her ice-cold hand a final squeeze in parting.

He noticed the house-elf lingering around the door. "Watch over her today," he ordered quietly as he passed.

Sully replied, "I is, Master Draco. You don't worry. Sully is bringing tea for Mistress Malfoy, and Sully knows where Mr. Snape is leaving the potion."

Draco had been to the Ministry headquarters to give testimony so often in the past weeks that the guard recognized him and waved him through. Already, crowds were forming in the futile hope of getting into the gallery for what promised to be one of the biggest trials of the decade. Even after expanding the courtroom to accommodate the surviving families of Lucius' victims, a lottery had had to be held for the hundreds of rubberneckers anxious to snap up the few remaining seats.

He took a moment to step into a quiet corner and cast a quick glamour on himself. It had been weeks since he'd posed as David Carmichael, and even after months of wearing the disguise before the war ended he found it odd and discomforting. Still, for his own safety, he thought it prudent not to be seen as himself in halls packed with wizards and witches who might not put too fine a point on the difference between Lucius Malfoy and his son.

Crowds bunched together at the lifts, so he decided to forgo the queue and take the stairs. He descended without anybody noticing, glad for the opportunity to stretch his legs before what promised to be a long day of sitting. He was already too tense, and he expected no respite.

The noise of many voices guided him to the lowest level of the Ministry headquarters and the heavy wooden door of Courtroom 8. He found himself in a line queuing along the hall.

Security had been significantly beefed up. He was surprised to find that wands were not allowed into the courtroom for this trial, and a phalanx of Aurors was on hand to oversee their surrender and safekeeping. As he approached the makeshift station, the wizard on his left was arguing loudly against letting the Auror take possession of his wand.

"Is this really necessary?" he heard the man ask in a thin, aggrieved voice.

"No wands permitted," the Auror replied tersely, and Draco could sense that the man had repeated that phrase far more than he'd cared to already. Still, confiscating a wand was rare enough, and the indignant wizard's resistance was unsurprising.

"This wand hasn't been out of my possession for sixty-three years," he insisted.

"If the gentleman doesn't want to surrender it, there are plenty of other visitors who would be glad to take his seat in the courtroom." The Auror looked at him steadily. Finally, the recalcitrant wizard handed over his wand without another word.

After Draco passed his wand to an alert-looking witch, he found his hand being firmly pressed onto a piece of soft vellum, which wrapped itself comfortably around his palm and fingers, molding itself to conform to his grip like a second skin. At the witch's command, the vellum fell gently to the table, and she placed his wand on top.

"Name?" she asked.

He tried to keep his voice low. "Draco Malfoy."

Instantly, the vellum loosely encircled the wand, and the package soared through a shimmering ward to a niche behind her, where even more Aurors secured them. Now, only a hand that matched the vellum's imprint could retrieve the wand from their guardianship.

He'd managed to break the routine of the witch's morning, he noticed. She was staring at him as though he was some kind of prohibited animal, but at least she hadn't reached for her own wand. He supposed he should be grateful.

"Am I finished here?" he eventually had to ask, and she jerked herself back into something approaching an expression of pretended passivity before nodding briefly.

He took a moment after entering the courtroom, keeping his back to the crowd and feigning to study a picture of the Earl of Duncastle, to allow his glamour to dissipate. With everyone wandless, he decided his safety was ensured - well, that was unless someone decided to attack him with fists - and he didn't care to expend the energy on maintaining this faÃ§ade all day. The Earl, privy to his transformation, muttered, "Good show, old man," and Draco gave him a lifted eyebrow and a smirk in his best Malfoy style.

Severus had been keeping watch on the door and caught his eye as he turned around. Draco nodded his recognition and threaded his way around a rather large witch who, from the sound of her excited blathering, was anticipating the outcome of the trial with visible enthusiasm.

" _Avada's_ too good for the likes of him," she was saying, gesturing dramatically and nearly knocking Draco down with one wildly flailing arm. He managed at the last second to dodge around her, but she fortunately didn't pay any attention to him, so caught up in her diatribe was she. "He murdered my son and his wife - she was Muggle-born. They were having an early tea when it happened...."

He realized that he didn't even remember which family it could have been. There were too many; they blended together into one unholy recollection. A Muggle family missing here, a brother and sister orphaned there, a soldier caught out and tortured, an inn burned to the ground. All in a day's work for Lucius Malfoy, the frightfully efficient Death Eater.

But if Draco couldn't remember, this courtroom overflowed with those who could - every detail, every callous action, every ruthless death - because Lucius Malfoy had utterly ruined their lives. They were here today to bear witness and to make sure the Wizengamot did the same for him.

With a sigh, he slipped into the seat next to Snape's in a conspicuously empty section. "Severus," he said in way of a greeting. How could he have said, "Good morning?" They both knew it was far from that.

"Draco. How is your mother today?"

"As expected." That exhausted any conversation.

The sound of the crowd surged perceptibly, drawing his attention to a group just entering. Severus also noticed the change in the room, and they exchanged glances. Neither needed confirmation as to whom the excitement was for.

Potter.

He was flanked by his usual Gryffindor crowd - Granger, Longbottom, Thomas, Finnigan, and a bright flock of Weasleys. His entourage surrounded him as though they were bodyguards, which wasn't far from the truth. People in the crowd near him pressed closer to the new arrivals, as if Potter were a magnet and they were made of iron.

Potter had been such a part of everyone's thoughts and conversation for so long, both during the war and in the weeks since the last battle, that Draco realized with a start that he hadn't actually seen him in person - ignoring the hundreds of polyjuiced Potters fighting the last battle - since his last night at Hogwarts. The night they'd kissed. In the years since, he'd convinced himself that his inappropriate behavior was only a ridiculous attempt to hold on to the last scraps of his schoolboy innocence. He hadn't allowed himself to wonder why Potter had kissed him back. But if that was true, then why was his brain sending him anxious signals at the sight of his former adversary? Why was he feeling so uncomfortably unnerved at the mere sight of him?

"Let's kill the fatted calf," Severus said, for Draco's ears only, in a tone laced with heavy sarcasm. "The golden boy has arrived."

After everything that had happened to him since leaving Hogwarts, Draco found that his blazing animosity towards Potter had faded considerably. He'd moved past childish anger without even being aware of it, and he assumed everyone else had, too, so he was surprised to hear the bitterness in Severus' remark.

Potter looked much the same as he had that night; perhaps a little broader in the shoulder, a few more muscles developed from a physically grueling war. The most striking difference was the too-serious look in his eye and his weary expression.

The group forged through the crowded room, until Draco belatedly realized they were heading towards their otherwise empty section. Potter stepped ahead of his protectors to stand directly in front of him. Feeling distinctly at a disadvantage, he quickly rose to meet him eye to eye and was curiously pleased to find he was slightly taller than the other man. Not by much, but enough.

Potter reached out a hand to him and said, "Malfoy."

Draco was distantly aware of a cluster of photographers poised nearby, ready to capture this historic occasion. Feeling self-conscious in the extreme, he responded in the only way possible, hoping that his own hand wasn't sweaty with nerves. "Potter."

Beside him, Severus gasped.

Potter didn't pull away as fast as Draco thought he would, instead lingering in their touch for a long moment. He wondered if it was entirely for the benefit of the photographers.

"I'm sorry," was all Potter said, although what he was sorry for - the attention of the crowd concentrated on them with naked curiosity, or the trauma of his father's trial, or maybe their whole ugly history - he didn't clarify.

"I know," he replied, although he hadn't intended to say that at all.

Potter led his group down the row of seats, stopping to offer Severus a brief handshake as well. Severus didn't bother to stand. Dean Thomas settled into the chair next to Draco's, and gave him an unexpectedly warm greeting.

His response was cut off by the loud echo of the courtroom door slamming shut, which caught the attention of everyone in the room and brought the noise down to a low murmur. At the same time, two doors - one to the left of the raised platform and one to the right - swung open. From the first door, the elegantly robed members of the Wizengamot filed out, silent and serious, taking their seats behind richly carved tables. There were noticeable gaps in their ranks - he saw that those members killed in the war had not yet been replaced, possibly as an unspoken statement as to why they were assembled here today.

From the other door, he saw four Aurors array themselves around the tall figure of his father; they marched slowly into the center of the room and stopped below the judges. His private attorneys followed. Draco felt as if everyone in the room could hear his heartbeat, so affected was he at his first sight in months of his father. But the audience's attention was firmly fixed on Lucius, and they reacted with various hisses and low rumbles, until a louder voice was heard.

"Murdering Death Eater scum."

That lone voice was loudly echoed by another, then another, until shouts rang out all around. His father, frozen in place between his guards, didn't show any signs of hearing them.

"Silence," came a loud command from the most conspicuous wizard, obviously the new head of the Wizengamot. Draco dug through his memory for the name - Eurybiades Tabernash. Draco remembered him from a few Ministry debriefings he'd had, although he hadn't been aware of his position at the time.

Lucius was led to an isolated chair in the center of the room. As his father sat down, Draco watched strong leather straps wind themselves tightly around his wrists and ankles, binding him to the seat. He'd told himself he wasn't going to look at Lucius, but now he couldn't look at anything else. The last time he'd seen him was the morning of his own defection, and they'd never had an opportunity to say goodbye. Fate had made sure that they would never have that chance now.

One of the Wizengamot - a witch with a melodious voice - began reading the Ministry's charges against his father. The length of the scroll in her hand let him know that she would be reading for some time. The sheer volume of offenses was boggling. Some of them Draco had witnessed, some he'd only heard of, and some were new. Each offense alone was worthy of conviction and capital punishment.

His father didn't stand a chance.

The witch finally finished, and Tabernash addressed his father directly. "You are Lucius Malfoy?"

There was a long pause, intended to provoke, he was sure. "Yes."

"Do you have anything to say regarding the charges against you?"

No answer. His father's solicitor, Lysander Redmund, stood up from where he was seated a little behind Lucius, and spoke. "Mr. Malfoy does not wish to testify on his own behalf."

"Very well," Tabernash said, with ill-concealed relief. His refusal made the trial that much easier, although probably not a lot briefer.

A tiny wizard came forward to pull back the drape from a nearby table. Draco recognized the contents - bottle after bottle of Veritaserum, one tiny dose for each witness. It promised to be a long day.

The Ministry had chosen to start with testimony from what few survivors Lucius had left behind, intermixed with the loved ones of those who'd not been so lucky. The witnesses had apparently been picked as the more articulate representatives, but even then, after several hours, the words began to have a horrific sameness to them.

"Before we could get down, he aimed a killing curse at my husband and I saw the green light..."

"...and then he pointed his wand at me and I heard him say, ' _Crucio'_..."

"...he shouted, ' _Incendio'_ , and the whole room went up in flames, and I barely got out alive..."

"...after he murdered all ten of them in their sleep..."

"...then he tortured me for what seemed like hours, and then he was..."

"...smiling the whole time, like he enjoyed it..."

"...there was blood everywhere..."

"..and they were just children, but he..."

The only other sound was the opening and closing of the courtroom door after one onlooker after another discovered that the images were far too graphic for their stomachs and chose a discreet departure.

Potter was the next witness, to the unspoken delight of the crowd. Under Veritaserum, he dispassionately recounted Lucius' role in the resurrection of Voldemort and his activities at the Ministry when Sirius Black was killed, two accounts that Draco had never heard from the Order's perspective. Potter had grown more articulate over the past few years, and his chilling testimony had the audience on the edges of their seats. After nearly an hour of spellbinding narration, he was dismissed, but Draco reckoned that the _Daily Prophet_ would be retelling his hair-raising words for weeks to come.

"The Ministry invites Severus Snape to give his testimony."

For the first time that day, Lucius reacted to a witness, giving Severus a look of unrelieved disgust and pronouncing him, "Blood traitor." Severus didn't react, didn't even look at his father. He downed his Veritaserum wordlessly.

"What was your assignment for the Order of the Phoenix?" Tabernash asked him.

"I was an embedded spy among the Death Eaters. I was fortunate to remain undetected until the final battle."

"Was the Order aware of your actions on its behalf?"

"Yes, of course. I reported to them on Death Eater activities as frequently as I could."

"And you helped set up the trap that led to the final battle between Harry Potter and Voldemort?"

"I played a part, yes."

"And for your service to the Ministry you were awarded the Order of Merlin, correct?"

"Yes."

Tabernash led him through some of the earlier testimony, looking for and usually finding confirmation of the offenses charged against Lucius. Draco's attention began to wander, until he heard Tabernash ask, "Were you aware of other spies among the Death Eaters?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"The first was Lucius Malfoy's son, Draco."

His heart beat faster, and he wished he'd been paying closer attention. What had led the Wizengamot to ask about other Order spies? He'd hoped - in vain, it would seem - that anything related to his service wouldn't be mentioned. Heads turned his way.

"When did Draco Malfoy begin working for the Order?"

"He came to me while he was still my student at Hogwarts. He was barely sixteen at the time. I worked with him and trained him for several years before his father called him to become a Death Eater, just before the war broke out."

Draco was conscious of the growing scrutiny he was under from the row of surprised Gryffindors, but he refused to turn his head to let them catch his eye.

"Draco was able to remain with the Death Eaters for about a year," Severus added. "We served together at Death Eater headquarters."

"Why did he leave?"

"It was a decision I asked him to make. Two members of the Order were captured, and one of them had information that would have led to the capture of Harry Potter. Draco helped them escape before they could be questioned, which exposed him as an Order spy. For his work against the Death Eaters, the Ministry awarded him an Order of Merlin."

Severus was being remarkably long-winded with his answers, counter to their earlier training under Veritaserum. Apparently, he didn't think Potter's public acknowledgment good enough to hammer home the idea that Draco wasn't Lucius. Not that his testimony was of much use - Severus' reputation was only marginally better than Draco's.

Meanwhile, Dean Thomas was burning a hole in him with the intensity of his stare, but Draco refused to turn his head to look at him.

"Were there others with the Death Eaters who were working for the Order?'

"One other. Gregory Goyle."

It was Draco's turn to be surprised - hadn't Gregory been a Death Eater all along?

Apparently not. "Goyle came to see me after Draco left. He'd worked out that Draco had been working for the Order and was determined to replace him as best he could."

"Where is he now?"

"He's dead. He had no training at deception and wasn't very good at it. He was discovered not long before the final battle. His father killed him."

Draco felt an irrepressible surge of anger well up inside him, and it took all of his self-control to remain impassive. His fists clenched in his lap and he felt the bite of his nails cutting into his palms. His violent emotion should be directed at the Death Eaters - he knew that - but instead it spilled out over everyone else - anger at Severus for not telling him about Gregory before today, anger at Dumbledore for not forcing Gregory to remain at Hogwarts, and especially undiminished anger at himself for his inability to protect his long-time friend, the boy who only wanted to be like Draco, and who paid for his loyalty with death at his own father's hands.

Just at that moment, Lucius turned his head and stared directly at him with a calculating, brutal smile. He was grateful at that instant that his wand had been taken away, because he could have killed him in a heartbeat where he sat with not a trace of remorse.

But he would have to be content to let the Ministry do it for him - that is, if they were feeling merciful. Otherwise, they would transport him to Azkaban and let the dementors have him.

The Wizengamot took only five minutes to return their verdict against the notorious Death Eater Lucius Malfoy. They were not in a merciful mood. His father was condemned to live out the rest of his hopefully short days as an empty shell, stripped of his despicable soul. _Kissed_.

Draco took advantage of the resulting celebration to make a dash for the door, reclaim his wand, and escape the Ministry three steps ahead of the reporters, the crowds, and Harry Potter, who was inexplicably trying to catch up with him.

He didn't know why he bypassed the Floo network, instead allowing his mad dash to carry him through the Ministry door and into the street. He'd managed to lose Potter, but, knowing his tenacious nature, probably not for long. He felt the need to keep moving - anything to shake off the hours of inactivity and the shock of the verdict.

The sight of a messenger owl pursuing him as he strode away brought him up short. It was exceedingly rare for an owl to go in search of its intended recipient on a public street, and he reached for the message with genuine trepidation.

_We will not let your treachery pass unpunished. Narcissa and Lucius will not be parted long._

Numbness overcame him. For countless moments, he could only stand and stare at nothing, ignorant of the curious stares from passers by.

Potter had caught up to him at some point - had he just arrived or had he been standing here a long time, his eyes sympathetic and curious behind his ridiculous glasses? Wordlessly, he handed the note to him and Apparated away, back to the Manor where he knew without question that he would be too late.

Sully - not dead but only stunned, he quickly ascertained - was sprawled in the hallway outside his mother's room, and he left her there for the moment.

Throwing the door open, he managed to take a few steps into the room before his strength left him.

Narcissa was dead, that much was clear.

It was a message carried out in unmistakable Death Eater style. Her murder had been planned to cause the least amount of suffering to the victim - he could tell she'd died instantly, and for that he was thankful - and the most amount of anguish to the one who found her.

Utterly predictable. They hadn't intended to punish Narcissa, of course. They undoubtedly had no particular animosity towards her; they'd probably even enjoyed her hospitality here at one time or another during social Death Eater evenings. She was merely a convenient tool, a talent she'd perfected during her marriage to Lucius; a blank slate in the eyes of her murderers on which they could inscribe their gruesome message to him.

He staggered into the bathroom and vomited into the sink.

Every living member of the Order who'd known Draco, no matter how distantly - and some he'd never even met - attended his mother's funeral. He supposed he had Severus to thank for that deliberate and public show of support, but he wasn't about to mention it. Severus would not want him to.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

_Sharing the same cold cell, betrayer and betrayed,_  
an island with two frightened castaways.  
Warsaw 1943 (I Never Betrayed The Revolution) - Johnny Clegg

. . . . . . . .

Dean had found the perfect flat. Well, maybe _perfect_ was too generous to describe it, but the room he planned to turn into a studio - that was perfect.

It was tucked away in a nondescript neighborhood of Muggle London. Not that Dean had anything against Diagon Alley, but the wizarding district in London was too small to accommodate everyone who wanted to live there. And rent was a little cheaper on the wrong side of the Cauldron, although it was still going to make a dent in his tiny savings. Most of his friends also lived around Greater London and blended in - going native, they called it.

Plus, he hoped to make his mark on the London Muggle art scene, and a non-magical address was pretty much a requirement.

He'd enlisted Seamus to help him move. Not that they planned to do much heavy lifting - mostly he needed Seamus to keep a sharp eye out while Dean secretly levitated his furniture and boxes into the new flat.

"Think I can risk an _Impervio_?" he asked Seamus, as they both peered out into the wet street from the back of a borrowed lorry. "I'd hate for my stuff to get soaked. Why the hell did it have to rain today of all days?"

Seamus nodded. "Probably safe. I doubt anyone will watch us between here and the door. In case we have a mind to ask them to lend a hand."

Dean nodded and cast the waterproofing spell on the lorry's contents. "Sorry we can't do it to ourselves. That would look odd - two dry blokes in a downpour."

They didn't carry so much as guide the boxes across the pavement and into the building. Several of his new neighbors were scuttling through the halls, so they had to at least appear to be moving the Muggle way. But they'd gotten good at faking a move-in over the past few years - Dean tried to count between them how many times they'd moved since the war. Seven or eight, he thought, the last one when Seamus broke down his fiancee's resistance and moved in with her. Seamus had to promise a firm wedding date for that, and the extensive planning for the big day was sending him into fits.

"Did Lydia settle on the invitations yet?" he asked politely.

"After three trips to the engravers, yes, finally," he heard Seamus say from behind the cushions he was carrying. "Take my advice, Dean, and elope if you can."

"Why don't you, then?"

Seamus laughed. "I picked the wrong family to marry into. Lydia's mum would kill us if we didn't get married in the church."

"Oh, and like she won't kill you if she ever finds out you're living together."

Seamus make a quick anti-hex sign with his hands, allowing the cushions to hover in mid-air. "Don't even say that out loud. If she ever found out, I'd be begging for a merciful death."

Dean nudged him on from where he was blocking the door into his new flat. "So why risk it?"

"Because she's worth it, mate." He stopped in mid-stride. "Shit, Dean, could this place be any smaller? Where to?"

"Bedroom. There."

Seamus dropped his cushions unceremoniously. "So what happened to that lass you were seeing? Debby? Dana?"

Dean rolled his eyes. He never saw Seamus without being grilled about his love life. "Daria. Haven't seen her in a while."

"You heart-breaker. You go through more women than anyone I've ever met. So what was wrong with this one, then?"

"Nothing."

Seamus frowned at him, and Dean prepared himself for their peculiar, shorthand form of twenty questions. "Was she fit?"

"Yes."

"Muggle, then?" Meaning, _does she know about the war_?

"No. American, though." _She knows, but she wasn't a part of it._

"Dean, when will you learn? See, that's why me and Lydia are so suited. We can talk about things that happened to us. On our first date, we were on about where we were during the last battle. Great way to break the ice, mate."

Just like that, the relaxed camaraderie Dean had struggled to project was gone, leaving him with the cold guilt he always felt around his best friend. Seamus could be offhand about what happened to him during the war, because his worst memory had been wiped clean. If he really knew what had happened, it was a sure bet he wouldn't be here with Dean.

For the thousandth time, he regretted his partial memories of the night they were captured. He never knew which was worse - the things he remembered, or the things he imagined had been stripped away. He replayed the scene nightly, hearing himself utter the words that condemned Seamus to death with him. Following that, he would agonize over his hidden crimes, the ones that he didn't know - what else must he have done to betray his best friend?

And how had they escaped?

Seamus was still nattering on about girls. "...find someone you have something in common with."

"You know, I really don't want to discuss this," he said, more harshly than he'd intended.

The hurt in Seamus' eyes let him know he'd gone too far, but it was too late to make amends. "You know, Dean, we used to be able to talk about anything. Best friends, remember?"

Dean made an effort to ignore the great distance that had sprung up between them. "Sorry." And he was. He would be sorry forever, but he couldn't even begin to tell Seamus why.

"S'okay," Seamus answered, but he sounded unusually quiet.

"Ready for another load?"

"Yeah."

Dean waited for Seamus' usual witticism, some sharp wisecrack or funny observation that would ease the tension between them. It never came.

* * *

_Two dozen other stupid reasons why we should suffer for this,_  
Don't bother trying to explain them,  
just hold my hand while I come to a decision on it.  
Save It For Later - English Beat

. . . . . . . .

With dismay, Draco cursed the business that brought him to Diagon Alley today of all days - the streets were thronged with children, teenagers, and families on their annual shopping excursion in anticipation of the coming Hogwarts school year. He tried to suppress the sharp memories of his own excited trips here, the excitement he had felt at the smell of new textbooks from Flourish and Blotts, the little treats from the sweet shop his mother would buy for him, the lush, rich feel of new robes tailored just for him.

And his own appearance today did not go unremarked. Sharp stares from older students, open-mouthed gapes from the younger ones, quick hands snatching at children to draw them closer and away from this sinister figure in their midst. He didn't need to read the _Daily Prophet_ to recognize what was going through the minds of the wizarding hoi polloi - Draco Malfoy was someone whose path you did not want to cross.

In irritation, he almost decided to Apparate back to the Manor to await a better day, but his business was too urgent. Instead, he picked up his steady pace, allowing the crowds to scatter before him as though they were peasants removing themselves from the formidable presence of their vassal lord. He was careful not to meet their eyes.

His first destination was Gringotts. The door to the eminent goblin financial institution opened invisibly at his approach before his hand could even reach for the door. There he was greeted and bustled through the public foyer into a richly appointed room, where the Malfoy family banker, Royashk, welcomed him with respect.

Respect that only a great deal of money could produce.

He relaxed slightly. To be honest, he wasn't certain of his financial status at this point. He was fairly sure that the Black accounts were freely available to him as his mother's undeniable heir. But the Malfoy millions were entirely another matter - his standing was still legally unresolved.

Royashk was as cautious and circumspect about the Malfoy fortune as he was.

"Mr. Malfoy. We have discussed the matter you've enquired about, and are unable to come to a definite conclusion. The wizard attorneys have come nowhere close to a resolution of this matter as of yet."

Of course not - Lucius was still legally alive. He'd expected problems to come out of it. He matched the formality of his banker's language in his response.

"I am on my way to see my solicitor after our business is concluded."

"Of course," the goblin answered. He was running a smooth, deliberate forefinger over the numerous rings he wore. Draco watched him carefully, knowing that he was in the presence of an extremely calculating mind.

Royashk continued. "You have full access to the Black accounts for your immediate use. Therefore, unless circumstances arise that necessitate you gaining additional funds, we at Gringotts prefer to hold the Malfoy accounts in restriction at this time. If you find yourself in need of these accounts, however, please contact me and we may reconsider this position."

Draco acknowledged this statement with a nod. Gringotts was playing him very carefully - they couldn't afford to alienate him if, as he expected, he came into his inheritance. On the other hand, they had to consider the Ministry, which already had sent their first shot across the bow over his father's money. Not surprisingly, revenge-bent wizards at the Ministry had no intention of stopping with the dementor's kiss. Not with such a tempting target as the Malfoy estate in their greedy sights.

He got through the tedious task of transferring the Black accounts to his name and soon found himself back on the sun-drenched street outside Gringotts. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He'd been more ill at ease than he'd realized during his visit, and the fresh air and warm sun lightened his mood. Unexpectedly, he noticed a bold girl, maybe a seventh-year, give him a knowing and deliberate eye. _Ah, the lure of the bad boy_ , he thought, and suppressed a smile. _Sorry, darling, you're not really my type_ , he reflected with amusement, _but do you have an older brother somewhere?_

He headed up the street to Redmund, Hall, and Strongfellows. As he passed the latest model brooms lovingly arranged in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, he couldn't resist a long, slow look. Merlin, was it only a few short years ago he'd stood here with his nose pressed up against the window like these students did today? Suddenly, he felt old far beyond his age.

Lysander Redmund, the senior partner, seemed to have already mustered the legal troops for pitched battle. Draco didn't recognize the other two wizards in their conference, introduced to him as Fontinelle Green and William Wolcott.

"The Ministry owled to us this morning their official intent to pursue the forfeiture of the Malfoy estate," Redmund began.

Even though his solicitor had warned him of this earlier, it still hurt to hear it. "Bastards," he muttered, and could have said much, much more, but why waste words? For once, the wizards in this room were all battling on his side.

Fontinelle Green, a small, bob-haired woman of considerable age - and, he hoped, experience - spoke up. "The legal status of the victims of the dementor's kiss is still ambiguous, Mr. Malfoy. Specifically in your case, the issue remains: are you able to inherit at this point?"

He could tell she was walking a fine line between presenting the facts and sparing his feelings, and he was unexpectedly moved by her finesse. What she was driving at, in truth, was the blunt question: is Lucius Malfoy alive or, for all practical and legal purposes, dead?"

She continued. "The fact is, the Ministry's, ah, _relationship_ with the dementors is so new as to create a legal vacuum. I believe you got a taste of this after your father's trial."

Oh, yes. A bitter taste. In their rush to prosecute former Death Eaters and administer this new but not quite deadly form of punishment - and wasn't the notion of being kissed into oblivion poetic? - the Ministry had created more than one problem for itself. In the first place, these unfortunate walking shells had to be warehoused somewhere. But after several newsworthy and distressing reunions, families of the victims were strictly forbidden to even see them again. However, those who were kissed continued to require the basic necessities of life - food, shelter, maintenance - and letting them die untended, starving to death, was viewed as too barbaric for the so-called side of Light. Definitely bad PR. So the Ministry shunted them off to an institution somewhere near Bath, in a little wizarding town called Wellow - out of sight and out of mind.

Draco forcibly returned his attention to Wolcott, who was itemizing exactly what the Ministry was after. "The Gringotts accounts, of course. The properties in Sussex and abroad, the mansion flat in London, the warehouses in Hogsmeade. The Manor."

He froze as he recognized his mistake. Up until this point, he'd allowed himself to concentrate on the Gringotts's accounts. Why had he blindly overlooked the likelihood that they would go after the Manor? Was it wishful thinking or just stupidity? Naturally, that would be the first thing they'd attack - the visible symbol of the formerly powerful Malfoy family.

Redmund apparently noticed his shocked response, because he was quick to interject, "Of course what the Ministry wants and what it will get are two entirely different things. We do not intend to allow the Ministry to succeed. Even though they are careful to point out that they are proceeding against Lucius and not against you, the fact remains that only you are harmed by their actions. Forgive me for saying this, but your father is beyond further punishment. He alone was the Death Eater, whereas you are a decorated veteran of the Order and fought against your father. We propose to remind them of this in as many venues as possible. Sometimes, public opinion is persuasive in swaying the Ministry."

He thought about the unfriendly faces he'd seen outside on the street, and wished his team the best of luck. The hard reality of it was that no one likes a traitor, even when the traitor is on your side. Any thanks he'd ever had from the official wizarding world, he was sure, was mere lip service.

Fontinelle Green withdrew a parchment from the imposing pile in front of her. "I've made an initial list of Order members who know of your service to them and consequently to the Ministry. Our plan is to ask them for public support to preserve your inheritance from unreasonable and unpatriotic seizure."

He looked at her with interest. Whose names had she managed to come up with?

She began to read. "Severus Snape. Dean Thomas. Seamus Finnigan. Hermione Granger. Ronald Weasley." Draco suppressed a snort at that name - hell would definitely freeze over before Weasley would agree to testify on his behalf. She paused, looked at him with no expression, then said, "Harry Potter."

Potter? He opened his mouth to object, but Redmund cut him off.

"We haven't got room for niceties, Mr. Malfoy. The positive testimony of Harry Potter would be an enormous benefit to your case."

If only it were positive, he thought sardonically. Could he let himself believe that Potter had buried their years of animosity because of events during the War, when they'd worked for the same outcome? Was Potter even aware of the things he'd done for the Order during that time? Yes, Potter had publically acknowledged him at Lucius' trial, and had expressed some words of sorrow at his mother's funeral that seemed sincere. But what did it come down to? Would Potter help him now? Or would he be convinced that anything the Ministry could do against Lucius was justified?

And did Draco have the guts to ask him for this?

The others in the room were looking at him with expectation. He made up his mind, as he knew he would, as he knew he had to. "Do whatever you need to do. I don't care about the money. Or any of the rest. It's just - I can't give up the Manor. I-" He couldn't finish.

That seemed to be taken as marching orders, because Redmund and the others gathered their papers together and stood up.

"We'll be informing you of our progress by daily owls, Mr. Malfoy. Let us know of any other information you think we need to fight this."

Draco Malfoy was back at war.

* * *

_Beneath the trees we slumbered; and in the wings of Azrael, slowly, we faded to black._  
Scarlet Seraph

. . . . . . . .

Draco slowly leafed through the morning's missive from his solicitors as he crossed his marbled foyer on his way to the study. At the onset of their by-now-substantial correspondence he'd been irritated and questioned just why his lawyers plagued him with all these endless details - wasn't that why he paid them, and generously, at that? As weeks passed and he viewed how his case was being constructed argument by argument, he'd grown at first curious and then fully absorbed into their craftsmanship at clarifying his position, laying out his strong and weak arguments. Sometimes he even thought he could identify a glimmer of the possible outcome. If it hadn't mattered so very much, he could easily have become fascinated by the carefully constructed positions, the cerebral arguments, the ideas logically presented so that _this_ must necessary follow _that_ , leading to satisfactory judgment.

Nothing was certain. There remained a very real possibility that he still would lose everything to the Ministry - they were stubbornly digging in for a long fight. However, contrary to his Slytherin tendencies, and because it did matter so very much, he still preferred to hope.

He was distracted from his passage by a bright expanse of sunlight illuminating the third tread of the grand staircase. He was familiar enough with the manor to appreciate that this solar intrusion only occurred at this particular time of year. Sunlight as recurrent and predictable as the seasons, stretching back in time to when the manor was first built, and reaching into the future until after he would no longer be there to appreciate it. He paused, then moved to the warmly lit spot and sat down, feeling the rays quickly warm his black trousers and shirt.

Instantly, he was whisked back to a long-ago moment - the first time he remembered meeting Gregory Goyle.

* * *

His first image of Gregory was of a shy boy peering from behind his mountain of a father. Goyle Sr. was bellowing his greetings to Lucius and stamping off the trace amounts of ash he'd tromped in from the fireplace. Draco could only stare - he'd not met many other children except Pansy Parkinson, who was his best friend - and Gregory had shifted nervously under that direct scrutiny. He remembered enjoying the feeling of power that Gregory's discomfort had given him. Watching them closely, Lucius had taken it upon himself to make their initial introduction. Then the two men had rapidly headed off to the study, wordlessly making clear that the two boys were to entertain themselves elsewhere.

He took Gregory's too-small sleeve and tugged at him insistently, saying only "Come on, you." He wasn't surprised - maybe he should have been - when Gregory readily trotted beside him, as if the transition between following his father's directives and Draco's was a natural and inborn talent. Draco was heading for one of the ground level rooms - even then he'd jealously guarded the sanctity of his bedroom from strangers - when he noticed the sunlight on the staircase and diverted them. Gregory, caught by his unexpected change in course, nearly stumbled, but Draco felt him recover his balance while at the same time trying to hide his momentary awkwardness. As though pleasing Draco's whims were second nature. As though Draco's desires superceded his own.

He liked this new boy already.

He settled himself on the third step, feeling the sun quickly warming his pale skin, even more quickly heating his black clothing. Gregory hesitated, then plopped down beside him, not too close, intentionally careful not to block any sunlight from reaching Draco. If he turned his head slightly, he could see Gregory watching him, his mouth slightly open, his hands twisting his sleeve uncertainly. Draco slitted his eyes against the sun, feeling the heat of the rays from the window, feeling the gaze of the boy at his side, feeling the tentative bond between them. He was happy knowing that he might now have a male friend, just as his father did. The idea was remarkably comforting. He closed his eyes.

The boy next to him coughed, stuttered, then finally blurted out, "Are you an angel?"

He turned, surprised. "What?"

"Are you an angel?" Gregory repeated, a little less forcefully, as if he'd realized he had said something unusual, perhaps something that may unwittingly have offended.

He didn't have any idea of how to answer, so he remained silent, eyes wide at the unexpected question. To be honest, he didn't really know what an angel was. He recalled one picture he'd seen of a fair creature in white, with enormous wings, surrounded by shining rays of light. But that angel had been a woman, not a small, grey-eyed boy resting on a stone stair in his everyday robes.

Gregory squirmed as if he knew he'd said something unsettling, but continued. "You're so pretty. You're shining. I've seen angels before, and they look just like you. Shining."

"Where?" Gregory looked as if he couldn't connect that question to what he'd just said, so he tried again. "Where have you seen angels?"

"Oh. We have a window, at our house, a colored window. You know, the kind that makes a picture. And there are angels in it."

"Angels are girls."

"Ours are girls and boys. Boys can be angels."

"With wings?" He'd already forgotten that Gregory wasn't as quick as he was, so he elaborated. "Do the angels in your window have wings?"

"Yes. Wings. _Yes_."

"Well, I don't have wings."

"No, Draco." He could see the other boy check to be sure. "Not yet."

Did Gregory expect him to grow wings, then? He grew more excited as he thought about it. He might enjoy - no, he would definitely enjoy - a pair of strong wings. He knew that dragons had wings - he'd had countless pictures of dragons bestowed on him, and he'd often imagined himself, like his namesake, taking to the skies at will and soaring freely as far as he wanted. His parents had never told him he was going to grow wings, but then, he knew that his parents kept many secrets from him. Maybe this was another one.

But if it was a secret, he shouldn't tell Gregory. Not right away. Maybe when they were best friends, then he could. He supposed wings like that would be hard to hide, anyway.

Gregory was staring at him as if he expected him to grow wings right then, to push them out from some secret place and unfurl them as he watched. He looked as if he wanted to touch him, but Draco already knew that he wouldn't dare, that he had already intuitively registered his boundaries.

Gregory made one last attempt at the conversation. "My father told me, before he would let me come, that I have to be very careful around you. He said that you are a special boy."

 _Oh_. He'd heard that himself, from his own father, from his mother, from other Malfoys. He didn't think that everyone else knew it, too, and he felt suddenly warm with the recognition.

Eventually, Draco reluctantly gave up the idea that he was somehow an incognito angel. But for the entire time he knew Gregory, he doubted that the other boy had ever done so. Not from that day until the day he was killed. Gregory had always treated him as if he were some unearthly creature, someone from beyond their known world, even beyond wizard magic. He never understood it, could never seem to disabuse him of it, took advantage of it at times, but respected it anyway. It seemed to give Gregory comfort, that his best friend was an angel, even if no one else recognized it. Gregory knew it - a simple belief for a simple boy - and that was enough.

Enough to follow his friend, his angel, into the Dark Lord's service. And later, into the Order's service. Because that's where his angel had guided him.

Where Draco left him behind. He hadn't even tried to bring him out - he'd left him behind to be killed. He couldn't even risk coming back to see him properly buried, and oh, how he regretted that.

In the end, he thought bitterly, Gregory had been uncannily right. He pushed himself up from the step and down the staircase, shivering at the sudden chill as he moved out of the warmth of the sunlight. He had been Gregory's angel all along. The fucking Angel of Death.

* * *

_Am I the witness or am I the crime,_  
A victim of history or just a sign of the times?  
Woman Be My Country - Johnny Clegg

. . . . . . . .

Dean knew that things had finally come to a head. For months he'd tried to deal with the night he betrayed Seamus, but every time they met, he was again reduced to uncomfortable silence. Seamus was beginning to notice that something was seriously wrong between them, and Dean knew he suspected it had to do with their capture and inexplicable escape. And without knowing what had happened, Dean couldn't talk about it or reassure him in the least.

But it ate away at him.

He knew that Draco Malfoy held the key. He avoided thinking of Malfoy, even though he felt that one day, he'd be unable to ignore him any longer and would have to seek him out, if only to confirm his worst fears.

He'd betrayed Seamus, his best friend, and Seamus didn't remember any of it. A lesser man would have thanked his lucky stars and pretended that everything was fine. But that wasn't Dean.

He was haunted by nightmares. His days were filled with regret. He couldn't bear to carry his own guilt anymore, to accept the kind of person he really was. That unblemished image of himself before the war - the myth that he was worthy of belonging to Gryffindor - had been a pretense, untested and unchallenged. Because when he'd finally faced his worst fears, he didn't have enough moral courage to hold out. To save his own skin, he cowardly threw away the one person he should have protected. He was no better than a Death Eater himself.

He withdrew from friends, threw himself into his drawing, tried to forget even more than he knew had been erased. To no avail.

So here he was, turning up his collar against a stiff breeze on a cold March morning in Wiltshire, Apparating to the gates of Malfoy Manor after his tentative owl request had been followed by a taciturn invitation.

The black iron gates opened to him and he trudged up the gravel lane. Morning birds heralded his arrival as though he were some noteworthy celebrity. Reaching the door, he lifted the ornate knocker and let it fall with a hollow thud.

Instantly, the door opened and he was immediately received by a deferential house-elf.

"Mr. Thomas,' the voice squeaked. "You is welcome here, sir. Please come."

He shrugged out of his coat, which was quickly dispatched, and followed the elf into a study. Malfoy was already there; the slight figure leaned forward to shake his hand and asked, "Tea? Coffee? Something stronger, perhaps?"

"Tea is fine." As Malfoy gave instructions to the house-elf, Dean allowed himself to look around the room. He'd always imagined his schoolmate living in luxury, and he wasn't disappointed. But he had limited experience with wealth and wasn't prepared for the awe-inspiring scale of it. Everything he'd seen so far was elegant and beautiful, to an intimidating degree. The artist in him appreciated it; the boy from East London felt awkward and unnerved.

After social niceties were handled, Dean got to the point.

"Malfoy," he began in a serious tone that he'd practiced before his arrival. "I have a great favor to ask you."

Malfoy looked intrigued; his eyebrows went up, signaling him to continue.

"I want - that is, I am asking you to end the memory charm you put on me."

Malfoy feigned innocence, as Dean suspected he might. He wouldn't be dissuaded. Not now. After all this time, he didn't have the stomach for Malfoy's polished pretense.

"I remember enough," he continued. "Enough to know that you helped us escape. Snape said as much at your father's trial." Not seeing any denial of his account, he plunged on. "I know I betrayed Seamus that night. I know that. I accept that. But I need to know what happened afterwards." He was pleading now, his words low and intense. "I can't live with myself anymore without knowing it. Can you understand that?"

"Why are you so sure I had anything to do with the memory charm?" The patrician voice was cool and distant.

"I know. Seamus and I both know. Seamus doesn't remember anything except what little we pieced together. But I do. _I do."_

He could see Malfoy's resistance crumbling, but he remained wordless.

"The war is over. Does it really matter now?" He struggled to keep his voice from becoming too emotional. "I ...I really need to know. Malfoy. Please." He had said all he could. " _Please_."

"I understand."

"No, I don't think you can understand. About betrayal, I mean. How could you? You never-"

The polite veneer was gone in an instant, replaced with anger and outrage. "How dare you tell me what I do or do not understand? Do you think you're somehow special, Thomas? That no one else's failings can ever come close to matching yours?"

Flustered, he managed to stammer, "No. I didn't mean that."

Malfoy was looking at him coldly. "How can you say that to me, of all people? It's not as though you don't know what I was. What I did. How clean do you imagine my hands are?"

Belatedly, he realized how offensive his words had seemed. "I'm sorry. I didn't think before I said that."

His apology seemed to appease Malfoy somewhat. "Thomas, we are all of us just one step from betraying everyone near and dear. We like to think we're noble, but until something happens to challenge that illusion, we never see our own ugliness. Most people never have that chance."

"Tell me" he said quietly.

"Why should I?"

He took a steadying breath. "Because I was wrong. You do understand me."

Malfoy looked at him without saying anything for a long time, then he let out a short breath. "There's no reason not to tell you, I suppose. You remember Gregory Goyle?"

Dean nodded. Goyle had been one of his interrogators that night.

"Gregory was my best friend, for years, even before Hogwarts. Oh, I know you Gryffindors thought he was just one of my hired thugs at school. But everyone always sold Gregory short. He wasn't the best student at Hogwarts, or the brightest. But I'd have to say he was the most loyal." Malfoy was speaking to the far corner of the room, not looking at Dean but focused somewhere else.

"I never really knew Goyle, except to see him in class. I knew he hung around with you," Dean admitted.

"He had only a few friends, but I was one of them. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do for me. And when I joined the Death Eaters, he followed me there. Not for any great loyalty to the Dark Lord or support for the cause. Not at all. Gregory wasn't that way - he didn't have a lot of use for abstract ideals."

Dean had never seen Malfoy fidget before, but now he was nervously tracing his fingers around the edges of his tea cup.

"Gregory never knew anything about me being a spy for the Order, and I could never risk my neck to tell him. I was too busy saving my own skin. I didn't even try to talk to him about what he might have wanted. When I defected, I had to leave him behind."

"But he chose to be there-" he began, but he was curtly interrupted.

"No, he didn't choose to be there. He chose to be with me, and I abandoned him. There's a difference." Malfoy's face was stony. "But it gets worse. After I left, Gregory pieced together some of the things I had done against the Death Eaters. He finally took what he knew to Severus, who decided to trust him. Gregory worked against the Death Eaters from then on. But I never knew."

Now Dean understood why Malfoy had looked so shocked at Lucius' trial, after Snape had said that Goyle had been a spy. "I never would have suspected him."

"Well, too bad you weren't a Death Eater, then. Because eventually they caught on to him. He never had the training I did, and he wasn't clever. Severus managed to get wind of the rumors just in time. Things were shaky because I left anyway - Severus just squeaked out of being blamed for that whole fiasco. But he deflected the paranoia over my defection to someone more ... deserving."

"He was lucky."

"No, he was opportunistic. He convinced everyone that my father was more at fault, and he was the one who ended up under Cruciatus. How's that for ironic justice?"

Dean didn't answer. There wasn't anything he could say.

"By that point, Gregory was lost no matter what anyone did. And Severus couldn't afford to have two Order spies uncovered in his circle. So he did the only thing he could do in the circumstances - he denounced him first."

"So Snape had to betray him. It wasn't you."

Malfoy frowned and shook his head. "Gregory was only there because of me. He became a spy for the Order because of me. If not for me, his mother would have shipped him off to Durmstrang before seventh year with Vincent Crabbe, and he'd have been out of the whole mess. Severus betrayed him, but I did it first."

Dean wanted to reassure him; he'd only done what he had to do. But his own situation told him that answers were never that easy. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. For Gregory. But he wasn't the only one I had to betray. I'd done a lot worse before then." He stood up. "Let me show you."

Dean followed Malfoy out of the study. Neither man spoke as the traversed the hall, their footsteps echoing loudly around them. Malfoy stopped short before a closed door, uttering something quietly to unlock it. They continued inside.

He found himself in a large, windowless ballroom of some kind, and from appearances, this room was never used. Darkness radiated from every corner; the only light came from Malfoy's extended wand.

" _Lumos_ ," he heard, and sconces lit up along each wall, illuminating the heavy furniture and gloomy draperies.

From the center of the room, he could see a gallery of wizard portraits - Malfoys as far as the eye could see. The figures were apparently unused to being disturbed, and there was a distant muttering at first as they were roused from their slumber. The words were at first indistinct, then he began to distinguish some of what they were saying. The noise grew louder.

"How dare you show your face to us," he heard. "Blood traitor."

"You aren't worthy to present yourself to us. Be gone from this house."

"Treacherous filth."

"Murderer. You as good as killed your father. Your mother died paying for your betrayal."

"You are unworthy of the name Malfoy."

"We disown you."

"Betrayer."

"Betrayer."

" _Betrayer_."

Dean stood in silent shock as the noise grew so loud around them that he was tempted to cover his ears. Each of Malfoy's ancestors rained down vitriol upon their lone living descendent. For his part, Malfoy stood impassively, head held up, apparently unaffected, but Dean knew that was pretense - how could he bear to listen to that naked hatred without feeling it in every fiber? Even Dean, who knew none of these witches and wizards, sensed the ugly, raw emotion flooding everything. Suddenly, it was too much.

He tugged at Malfoy. "Come on. Let's go." For a moment, he felt Malfoy resist his pull, then to his relief Malfoy relented, and they headed out of the room. Just before the door, they paused in front of a large portrait - Dean recognized Lucius and Narcissa. The couple were spitting out the same epithet as the rest of their compatriots - _betrayer, betrayer, betrayer_ \- and Dean watched Malfoy nod slightly and close his eyes. Then, thankfully, finally, they were back in the hall. Malfoy shut the door behind them with a soft click, cutting off the voices in mid-rant.

Dean was still too stunned to speak.

Malfoy turned to him with a blank expression. "So you see, if I ever have any doubts about who I am or what I've done, I always have a ready reminder."

He couldn't believe Malfoy willingly listened to that poison. "That's not who you are. They don't know the truth - how _could_ they know?"

"They know I betrayed Lucius. That's a fact, Thomas - I did. I thought I had to, but it doesn't change things. Not for them."

They'd returned to the study, where Dean gratefully collapsed back into his chair. "Can I ask you something?"

Malfoy looked at him with a distant smile. "It seems to be the afternoon for confessions. Go ahead."

"Why do you stay here? Why live here all alone? Doesn't it have too many bad memories? I mean, the Death Eater meetings, and your mother..." He didn't want to be insensitive by mentioning her murder in one of these rooms. "And that crowd back there...."

"Well, I don't visit them all that often, to tell you the truth."

"So why do you stay here at all?"

Malfoy's serious look had an unusual air of perplexity. "Why wouldn't I stay here? It's my home."

"Yes, but there must be other places you could live. This can't be the only property you own."

"No, of course it's not. There's a flat in Belgravia and a cottage in Marseilles. A manor outside of Prague. A dacha in St. Petersburg, I think. A yurt in Mongolia."

"You're joking."

"Well, yes, actually. But only about the yurt." Malfoy gave him a teasing smirk. "What did you think it meant to be terribly rich? All the Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans I want and a servant dedicated solely to picking out all the bad ones for me?"

Dean laughed. "I reckon I never thought about it at all. Being that it's not something I have to deal with myself."

"More's the pity, then. Well, let me tell you, corruption is a very lucrative pursuit. And the Malfoys have been at it for generations." He frowned slightly. "And then there were the Blacks...."

"Sirius' family?"

Malfoy nodded. "My mother's family as well. Didn't Potter ever tell you? Oh, well, I suppose he's ashamed of the connection. But come to mention it, if Sirius Black hadn't willed Grimmauld Place to Potter, I'd own that, too. Oh, well, I can't have everything, I suppose." His face grew more serious. "But Malfoy Manor is where I belong. It's where I grew up. I love it here."

"Do you?" Dean found it incomprehensible, but of course he hadn't been raised as part of the wizarding aristocracy. He had no burning affection for any of the countless places he'd called home. "To me, people always made it a home. The building, the rooms - none of that matters much."

"I know you think me shallow, Thomas, but I can't help but feel affection for this place - my heritage, my traditions, my memories - and yes, I actually do have some pleasant memories of the Manor." His stiff reply made Dean aware that he had offended his host with his remark, and he tried to make amends.

"I've never been in a more beautiful home, Malfoy. You know I grew up in a poor, segregated neighborhood - or maybe you didn't know. We didn't even have the Every Flavor Beans, let alone the servant. It's just different. I didn't mean to suggest it was bad."

Malfoy looked at him curiously. "Segregated? How did the Muggles know you were a wizard?"

He chuckled at Malfoy's confusion. "No, not like that. Of course they didn't know that. We lived in a neighborhood with other immigrants. A black neighborhood."

Malfoy didn't look any more enlightened. "A black neighborhood?"

"Yeah. I'm black. Didn't you notice?" He laughed nervously, then it suddenly struck him: "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

The other man shook his head.

Dean found himself in the strange position of explaining racism to someone he'd always thought was the most racist wizard he'd ever known. Malfoy absorbed his explanation wordlessly.

"So it's just like the pure-blood and Muggle thing that the DEs believed," he finished.

"But skin color? That's just odd. It has no bearing on what kind of a wizard you are."

"No. But being born pureblood or not doesn't, either, does it? Once you're a wizard, you're either talented at it or you aren't. The rest is just a circumstance of birth. Like being black."

"I don't know."

Dean looked at him sharply. "Well, from my point of view, I haven't noticed any difference between being hated for being Muggle-born or being hated for being black."

Malfoy nodded, apparently trying to take that on board, and they lapsed into a brief silence. After a moment, Dean returned to his original topic.

"We both agree that it's important not to bury the past. I think you can understand why I'm asking you to take off the memory charm."

He watched the last vestiges of resistance fade. "All right. I suppose I'm not surprised by your request. And you're right - it doesn't matter anymore. I did it to protect Severus, but the war's over. So they tell me." Without any more hesitation, Malfoy slid his hand elegantly to his concealed wand, withdrew it, and spoke the words Dean had longed for: _Finite incantatem_.

He closed his eyes and felt his memory unfold, opening up and finally releasing his buried history. He saw, as if for the first time, the chain of events leading up to his escape: the artless questioning by Goyle and Bryce, Snape's silent observation, Malfoy's deceptive kisses - quite a surprise, that - their hasty escape, the disclosures and admissions.

And at last, after months of trying and failing to come to grips with betraying Seamus, he could finally remember the feeling of warm fingers pressed against his own as they stood pinned against the rough cell wall, the whispered words Seamus had spoken to him, the forgiveness freely offered and gratefully accepted.

He should have known. The feelings of doubt and guilt he'd carried with him for months fell away, replaced by a welcomed lightness, a transcending joy.

He'd been expecting to regain the chronicle of their escape, but what he also learned, what was totally unexpected, was the detailed revelation of Malfoy's actions as he'd risked his own safety and became their deliverer.

He sat in silence for a long time, absorbing the information, trying to make sense of it. Finally he spoke. "Thank you. I see that I owe you my life. But why did you bother to hide this from us even after the war ended?"

Malfoy gave a delicate shrug. "Who knows? It seemed like a good idea at the time, you know?"

He could only laugh. "I suppose. I mean, none of us expected any of it to happen in the first place. It was damn bad luck that caught me knowing what I knew that night. One more day, I'd have erased the stuff I wasn't supposed to know and none of it would have ever happened."

"Kismet," Malfoy muttered softly. "Meant to occur, I think."

"Mmm. So where did you go anyway? After you saw us off."

"Greece, believe it or not - oh, I forgot, we have a villa in Thessalonica - but just for a short time. Then I had to come back." He looked at Dean severely. "On the side of the angels, of course. I never could go back to the Death Eaters after that spectacular turn of events."

"Of course, _Carmichael_."

Malfoy looked away in embarrassment, "Yeah, okay. At that point I needed to be back in the thick of things. And to tell you the truth, I didn't regret for very long leaving the Death Eaters, although I was pretty pissed off at you at the time. Death Eater Land wasn't exactly the nicest - or safest - place to be. Even for a Malfoy."

Dean smiled with genuine empathy. There was clearly more to Malfoy than what he'd let people think all those years ago at Hogwarts. He wouldn't make the mistake of short-changing him again.

"You know what - if your offer's still open, I think I'd like that _something stronger_ after all."

Malfoy looked at him with ill-concealed surprise. "Sure thing, Thomas."

He followed up on it. "Hey. Call me Dean. I think after kissing me down to my tonsils, you're entitled."

Before the afternoon was over, they'd imbibed far more than he suspected either of them was used to. The conversation had warmed with each passing moment, encouraged by what he recognized as expensive intoxicants, pent-up isolation, and their tentatively growing affinity towards each other. By the end of their private party, he had exacted a promise from Draco - _Draco_ , imagine that, he reflected hazily - to sit for him in his studio the next day. But not too early in the morning - they were in perfect accord on that.

* * *

_Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be,_  
as a friend, as a friend, as an old enemy.  
Come as You Are - Nirvana

. . . . . . . .

A single dose of hangover potion wasn't doing the trick this morning, Dean realized. It was a wonder he hadn't splinched himself Apparating from Malfoy Manor. And Malfoy - Draco, he mentally corrected - had promised to sit for him today. He wondered if he would even show up, or whether it was a liquor-induced promise, meant to be politely excused.

He mentally prepared for the arrival anyway.

Surprisingly, a firm knock interrupted his pre-lunch reveries, and the door opened to his response. Draco tentatively poked his head around the door - no house-elves here - and offered a quiet greeting.

"Hey, Draco," he replied, pleased that he remembered to use the other man's first name. "Come on in."

Dean's flat was an unbalanced compromise between decent living space and great studio illumination, and the lighting had won. He was all the more aware of its inadequacies after spending time at Draco's home the day before. The entire flat could have been dropped into the Malfoy Manor portrait room with plenty of room to spare.

Belatedly wishing that he'd seen fit to straighten up a little, he kicked away a pile of unfolded laundry and made a path to the sofa. "I've got coffee on. Would you like some?"

"Yes, thank you." Draco hesitated just an instant, then moved aside a stack of art magazines, and sat down, but he didn't look relaxed. His back was a little too straight, his hands plucked at some invisible imperfection on his cuff, and his eyes jumped around the room, looking everywhere but at Dean.

"Be right back." A few strides took him to the door of his tiny kitchen, one more to span it. As he fished out two clean mugs from the dish rack, he tried to get a grip on his own nerves. He was momentarily tempted to break out the liquor again, to try to resurrect their drink-induced camaraderie of yesterday, but his stomach revolted at the idea. Even the smell of coffee didn't have its usual appeal.

"How do you like yours?" he called.

"White, please."

He pulled out the milk, frowning at the expiration date and taking a tentative sniff. Seemed okay. He splashed some into both mugs. At the last minute, he grabbed a box of biscuits and the coffee, then stopped. He couldn't just shove the box at his guest and expect him to dig around in it - they needed to be on a plate. Setting everything down again, he rummaged around for his nicest plate, spending more time arranging the biscuits on it so they didn't look quite so haphazard. Except now, he was going to have a hard time carrying both coffee and plate. Did he even own a serving tray?

Turning around too quickly to check, he banged his head on the door he'd left ajar while digging out the plate.

"Shit."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I just-" Just gave myself a wake-up call. What was he thinking, trying to impress someone like Draco Malfoy with a cup of cheap, bitter coffee and a few store-bought treats? He was every bit the struggling artist, and he should stop acting as though he wasn't. He didn't have delicate pastries on an heirloom platter, he didn't have a devoted house-elf to serve them, and he sure as hell didn't have a posh manor study to enjoy them in.

But then again, he didn't have a room full of ancestral portraits that despised him.

He precariously managed to hold both mugs in one hand and the plate in the other, sighed, and went back into the living room.

"Let's take these into the studio, all right?"

His studio was the centerpiece of his flat, and he kept it far tidier than the rest of his space. He felt tension slipping away as he looked around, comfortable at last.

Draco walked around slowly, looking at the splash of drawings, mostly uncompleted, that were pinned up on the walls. "These are good," he said, and chuckled. "To be honest, I wasn't sure what to expect."

"But I drew at school."

"Mmm, so I heard. But I never saw anything you'd done."

"Dumbledore arranged for me have a show for the students, though, the last month of school. Didn't you-"

"Must have been after I left," Draco said quietly, and Dean felt like an idiot.

"Right. Sorry."

"I mean, I didn't expect puppies and kittens, but it occurred to me after you left last night that I had no idea whether you were serious about drawing. Good to know I'm in competent hands."

"Thank you."

"I have to confess, though. I've never done anything like this before. This is totally new, so you'll have to tell me what to do."

"Not a problem. All of my models are amateurs."

Draco turned to look at the drawing closest to him, something Dean was working on of his landlord's youngest daughter, meant as rent payment. "They don't move."

Dean smiled. "No. I only draw Muggle portraits. When I draw, I like to capture just one moment, and I need to define that moment. It's more...I don't know, honest, maybe. Wizard portraits change too much; to me it seems like the subjects have too much power. I don't like that. As an artist, I want to be the one in control."

Draco's mouth quirked up. "I wish the artists who've painted the Malfoys felt the same way."

"I can imagine. Well, I can guarantee that this is one Malfoy portrait that will never have the last word."

Draco laughed, and Dean noticed that he'd finally stopped looking so uneasy.

"Come sit down." He put his hand on Draco's shoulder, a first touch which almost always caused his models to flinch, but there was no reaction. Good.

He led him to a spot where the light was diffuse. "This is the part where everyone gets a little self-conscious. I'm going to look at you for a while from different angles. What I'm looking for is the way the light falls, the positions that seem most expressive, ideas about what I want to show with this drawing."

"All right."

"Feel free to talk. Scratch your nose, stretch when you need to. I'll warn you if I'm working on some part that needs to be still, but that won't come up for a while." He took both of Draco's hands in his and shook his arms lightly to relax the shoulders.

"Are you going to draw all of me or just my head?"

"I don't know yet. Let me see what comes to mind. Turn your head to your left...yeah, there."

Dean could never look at another person without automatically imagining how he would draw them. How he'd arrange their features, their posture, their expression to evoke a mood. When he could get away with it, he'd stare as long as he could. But he'd never allowed himself to stare at Draco this way, ever. When they were both younger, he'd let himself be intimidated by the way Draco was - all challenge and spite. People didn't dare get caught staring at him for fear of being roughed up by his minions. Dean had watched from a careful distance, knowing that Draco was far out of his league.

"Move your head slowly from left to right, then up and down. Hey, that's great."

He realized immediately that Draco was an artist's dream. The way the light defined his face with pale luminescence and contrasting shadow - the sharp angles of his cheeks, his pointed chin and heavy-lidded eyes, his full mouth - made Dean's fingers itch for a pencil. Each turn of Draco's head revealed another subtle nuance, another persona. He could feel his excitement grow at the prospect of capturing even a few of them, and he had to force himself to continue his usual evaluation.

"What do you see when I move like this?" Draco asked him.

"I'm watching highlights and shadows, mostly. And how your features change from one angle to the next."

"Is there enough light on me for that?"

"For starters, yes. But let me try something." He took a nearby shadeless lamp and switched it on. "I can really bring out things like this. When I move it here -" he positioned the bulb near the floor "- I can make you look sinister and creepy. Up here from above, you look angelic. Even more so if I backlight you, like this...the light shines through your hair and you look positively ethereal."

Draco laughed. "That would be a first."

Dean set the lamp down and switched it off. "Come over to this bench and we'll see what the sun does to you."

"Bad things. Sunburn, freckles. Give me a nice dungeon any day." He stood up gracefully and walked to the bench. Dean would have been satisfied just to watch him walk - he had a natural grace and elegance when he moved. Most people took hours to shake off their awkwardness, but Draco carried himself with innate confidence.

"Now I'm going to see what your body looks like in natural light." He put Draco through another series of exercises, and Draco asked him questions about what he was doing and why. All signs of his nervousness had disappeared.

"Sit sideways, lean forward, and wrap your hands around your knees. Good, yes. Rest your head on your knees. Uh huh. Now turn and look at me. Close your eyes."

After a minute, Draco said, "I'm going to fall asleep like this. I think last night is catching up to me."

"Okay, then. Up. Up!" Draco stood, waiting for the next instruction. "I've got just the thing to keep you awake."

He looked around the studio and caught sight of a straight-edge propped against his drafting table. That would do. He took out his wand and transformed it into a serviceable sword, passing it to Draco with a little bow. "Here. _En garde_."

Draco looked at the sword, them him, with distaste. "Philistine. This won't do." Pulling out his own wand, he changed the plain, flat-bladed sword into a fencing foil. "Now this is a proper weapon. _En garde_." He struck an exaggerated pose.

Dean couldn't help laughing. "Go ahead. Have fun."

"I don't have an opponent." He looked expectantly at Dean.

"Oh, no. No way. I'm horrible with sharp, pointy objects. You'll just have to imagine it."

So Draco did. He lunged and parried against an invisible foe, turning and twisting with genuine intensity and fire, while Dean watched in amazement. Finally, panting and glowing with perspiration, Draco called a halt to his solitary battle.

Dean summoned a glass of water for him.

"Thanks," Draco said, still breathing heavily. "I didn't know being a model was going to be so active."

"It's not. I made a special exception for you."

Draco lowered his glass and looked up with a smirk. "Payback for school? And here I thought we were friends."

"I'll try to go easy on you, then," he said, both surprised and pleased at Draco's casual remark.

Draco nodded. "You can start by moving me out of this bloody sunlight."

"Sure thing. I'd like you back in the chair you started in." Draco collapsed in it with pretended exhaustion, and Dean took pity on him and cast a cooling charm in his direction.

Draco closed his eyes and sighed as the chilly air embraced him. "Mmmm. Thanks."

"I'm ready to start drawing. You can stay just like that." His mind was as active as Draco had been moments ago. For today, a relaxed brow, a closed eye, a cheek. He started in.

They spent the next part of the afternoon in idle chatter - who'd married whom, where everyone ended up, what they were doing now - interrupted by Dean's short instructions and Draco's subsequent questions.

Finally, Dean stopped. "At ease, soldier." At Draco's questioning look, he said, "I'm finished for today."

"May I see?"

"Of course." He turned the tablet so that Draco could see his work and tried not to worry about what he'd say.

"Oh. It's nice. I never see myself from the side. Do I really look like that?"

"Yeah. You look different from different angles. More so than anyone I've ever drawn, actually."

"Is that good?"

"Very good. It means I have a lot of ways I could draw you." He'd been about to describe some of the ideas he had, until he realized that Draco had only promised him today.

"Will you finish this one first?"

He nodded, pleased that Draco had suggested it. "If you can come back and sit, I will."

Draco looked up with surprise. "Oh. I assumed you'd want me to. Do you?"

Dean grinned. "Absolutely. I was afraid _you_ wouldn't want to."

"No, it's interesting. Learning how it's done, I mean."

"It's interesting that we're doing this together at all. Who would have predicted it?"

"Well, we live in interesting times."

Dean had been putting away his pencils, but stopped to look up. "Funny you should put it that way."

Draco's eyebrows lifted in an unspoken question.

"That's a Chinese Muggle curse... _may you live in interesting times_."

Draco smiled slightly. "I didn't know Muggles had curses."

"Oh, sure they do. They just don't have any power to make them happen."

"Hmm. I suppose that's a good thing. I think I've had my fill of living in interesting times. After the past few years, I'm ready for a long spell of boredom."

Maybe, Dean thought, Draco was simply craving a different kind of curse.

* * *

_So I live, that's about all I can say; I breathe nearly every day._  
I Live - The Fixx

. . . . . . . .

Draco loved the labyrinth at the Manor; it was one of his favorite places to relax. Amid the antiquities of the rest of the estate, the labyrinth was fairly new, built under his mother's guidance. It occupied a generally low-lying spot surrounded by fragrant cedars. Diminutive boxwoods edged its brick-lined path, not to suggest confinement, but to guide where human feet should tread. The path wound in and around itself again and again, folding and unfolding quietly to its center. It was designed for peaceful contemplation.

Today it made the perfect place to walk off his unsettled emotions. He stoically disregarded the soft rain that had begun to fall, simply drawing his wool cloak a little closer. The labyrinth's connection to his mother helped to calm him - only a scant month had passed since her murder. No suspects had yet been identified, but he wasn't surprised. He knew who her killers were - which Death Eater had dirtied his hands didn't matter.

They hadn't been after her, of course; not particularly. Nothing his mother did had been of remote interest to the Death Eaters. She was a creature focused solely on material pleasures - on sights, scents, touches, tastes. This labyrinth was pure Narcissa - a civilized luxury away from the atmosphere of Death Eater chaos she had ignored so adeptly.

No, their real victim was actually Draco. With Lucius unable to protect her, Narcissa had become expendable. The Death Eaters simply saw a way to get at Draco and exploited it. The wards at the Manor weren't set to keep Lucius' friends out; Draco had recognized too late that the entry was wide open to his enemies.

And he missed his mother, more than he would have predicted given their history. The only portrait of her in the Manor was the one of her with Lucius, and he refused to visit it. He thought that there was another of her alone at Grimmauld Place - from time to time he'd thought about asking Potter for it, but hadn't gathered the courage. He didn't want to have the conversation with Potter that his request would surely trigger.

As he walked, he was struck at how much his life had become like this labyrinth. Round and round, in and out, wandering alone until he reached the center - a false destination, because nothing awaited him at the end of the path. He could only turn back and retrace his increasingly purposeless steps.

"Draco." He lifted his head at the unexpected call, to see Severus walking towards him just beyond a break in the cedars.

He paused in the path and watched his visitor descend the wet grass that carpeted the slope until he reached the paved surround of the maze.

"Severus." His former teacher was not as successful at ignoring the rain as he was; he'd already started to look bedraggled, and his shoes had passed beyond dampness.

Severus regarded him with a droll expression. "I thought only Gryffindors didn't have enough sense to come in out of the rain."

He smiled. "And I thought Slytherins had enough sense to wear waterproof cloaks in this weather." He broke his stride, crossing over the low boxwoods and out of the labyrinth. "Shall we head up to the house for some tea?"

Severus looked distastefully at the climb back up to the Manor.

He noticed the dismay, and laughed softly. "Don't worry, Severus, we can Apparate from here."

* * *

Sully brought the tea into the east sitting room, where a fire was dying into flickering orange embers. Both wing chairs had been drawn up close to the hearth, and the two men gazed silently for some time into the licking flames, allowing the warmth to drive the chill dampness from their clothing.

"Have the goblins at Gringotts reconsidered your inheritance?" Severus asked. Draco had been owling him news as he saw fit, not dwelling on details but asking for advice when he felt the need.

"There's no reason they can see to reconsider. To tell you the truth, I think they like the ambivalence. And until there's a grave I can spit on, there's nothing I can do."

Silence.

"Just come out with it. You were always terrible at small talk."

Severus frowned at him. "Maybe that's because I'm never allowed to practice it."

He laughed. "Spare me! I know you didn't come down from Hogwarts to chat me up about the details of my inheritance. And I'm positive you didn't come here to discuss goblin politics."

"Of course not. Can't a friend come round for a visit without being grilled at the door? Or have you already laced my tea with Veritaserum, and you're merely waiting for it to take effect?"

He appreciated the casual way Severus reminded him of their fateful talks while under the effect of the potion. He could even laugh - now - at his embarrassing admission about wanting to snog him - fortunately, they'd gone beyond his schoolboy crush to a more fruitful friendship, based on mutual temperaments and common, if horrific, experiences.

"Of course I have. Veritaserum, as a wise old professor once told me, is the most common potion in the wizarding world."

"Old?"

"Well, wise, anyway. Maybe not so old, now that I think about it."

"With that revised description, I think I know the professor, then."

"Of course you do." He allowed a sly smirk to play across his face. "Now, tell me everything about your clandestine love life, Severus. The gossip never seems to make it this far south. Except that I hear there's a new Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts. A very single, unattached professor. So they say."

Severus frowned. "Who, as far as I am concerned, will remain that way. And how is your love life these days, Draco?"

"Astonishingly nonexistent."

"You surprise me. An attractive, rich prospect like you?"

"It's really not so hard to understand. First, there's that troublesome business of being gay. Tends to reduce the dating pool dramatically. Then there's the son-of-a-despicable-Death-Eater reputation I seem to have acquired. Followed closely by the nefarious-spy-of-undetermined-loyalty reputation I invented myself. So any candidate for chivalrous suitor has been scared right out of the water."

"I'm sorry to hear that. But the pond is pretty small in Wiltshire to begin with. Perhaps you ought to be trolling in larger waters."

"Severus, really. Next you'll be posting anonymous ads in the _Daily Prophet_ on my behalf. _Lonely wizard looking to meet same. Of terrible and shocking repute, no prospect for improvement_."

"And are you lonely here?"

He shook his head in disbelief. "I see. So you've come here to share my hospitality while actually planning to uncover my deepest secrets? Are you spying on the spy? I'll remind you, I learned from the best."

Severus tipped his cup in acknowledgment. "I'm glad to hear you admit it."

He changed tack. "Not that I'm not glad for your company, but why are you here?"

Severus set down his cup carefully before answering. "I'm here to talk you into coming up to Hogwarts for a visit."

He hid his surprise at the proposal, and made his reply deliberately neutral. "Hogwarts? Why?"

"I though you might like to get away from this place for a time."

Draco, unprepared for the suggestion, didn't answer. Severus was probably the last person he would have expected to voice concern about his state of mind.

"You're surrounded by old memories and ghosts here, with only owls from your lawyers for company. It's not healthy for a young man."

"It's my home," he said quietly.

"It's a bloody vertical coffin, Draco!"

He finally let his irritation show. "Then what is Hogwarts? Just a trip into the past. Tell me which is worse."

"Then go to London. Or Paris. Or bloody Timbuktu. It doesn't matter." Severus leaned forward, his look intense. "Just don't let yourself turn into one of the ghosts here. We've seen too many wasted lives already from the war. Don't let yourself become another casualty by staying here and watching life pass you by."

He didn't know what to say in his own defense; he felt as though he'd lost the argument before it had even started. "I'm not-"

"You _are_. I see it. What do you do with your days? You don't see anyone, you live here in this massive, empty house like a hermit. Do you while away the hours conversing with the portraits? Play solitaire and drink scotch? Think up ways to irritate your house elf-"

"I get the point."

"Do you?" Severus's bare-faced stare was too unsettling for him to look at for long.

"What would you have me say?" He sat back in his chair, defeated. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. I never even finished school. And to be frank, there's not much call for an out-of-work spy. Consider yourself lucky you already had a day job." He smiled faintly. "So let me have your best career advice, Severus. I'm all ears."

Severus allowed him some comfort by responding to his poor attempt at humor. "Just like a Malfoy. Looking for a sycophant to do your heavy lifting." He relaxed and sat back into the soft upholstery, seemingly satisfied with making his point. "Even my youngest Muggle-born student would look at you here and tell you to _get a life_ , as they so quaintly put it."

"I have a life. Just not much of one at the moment." Draco allowed his frustration to color his voice. "And you're one to talk. You live in a bloody dungeon. Since when have you become such an expert in how to lead a full and active social life?"

"Sheathe your claws, Draco. I'm trying to help you."

"Yeah. Thanks ever so." Draco's lips were pursed together in exasperation, and he finally looked up. Something about their argument abruptly struck him as funny - the blind leading the blind - and his mouth quirked up in an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

"Draco, don't worry so much. It doesn't especially matter what you do next. Shelve books at Flourish and Blotts. Scoop ice cream at Fortescue's. Sweep out the Owlery at the Ministry. Just so long as you do something. Preferably away from here."

"I- I'll think about it."

"Do. Then act. And sooner than later."

"All right." He hoped that would be enough.

"Honestly, I don't think anyone in your generation ever had a chance to be a mindless adolescent ninny. How could you? Look at you - raised with nothing but years of Voldemort's influence over your household, then forced to go off to war before you were eighteen." Severus sat forward, pressing his point. "This may sound odd coming from me, but you need to learn how to be childish and silly, while you're still young. My God, Draco, you're only twenty-one. You live as if you're eighty."

He hesitated, and Draco wondered after that undiplomatic speech what he could add that would make him at all uncomfortable to bring up. "You know, it was no coincidence that the members of the Order showed up for your mother's funeral. There are people who care about you. Let them show you. Don't make the mistake of thinking that you're all alone in the world." His voice lowered so that Draco could barely hear his next remark. "Don't make the mistakes I did."


	2. Original Chapters 5-9 (end)

**Chapter 5**

_The past is never dead. It's not even past._  
Requiem for a Nun - William Faulkner

. . . . . . . .

"What can I get you? I have lager or lager."

"I can't make up my mind....Oh, well, I'll settle for lager," Dean told Harry as he peeled off his coat and tossed it on the back of the chair as he did every week.

"Oi, Dean," Ron shouted from the direction of the kitchen. "You should try the lager, mate."

He heard the clink of bottles as Ron made his way from the refrigerator to the living room, juggling four beers in his hands. "One for you, one for you, here you go Seamus, and one for me."

He ripped open the bag of crisps that made up his weekly donation and set them on the low table near the couch, where Seamus looked up and grinned. "About time you showed up. The game's about to start."

Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "Should I get a bowl for those?"

Seamus hooted at his question. "You ask that every week, Harry. And we always tell you the same bloody thing. Hell, no."

Dean chuckled. "Except when you tell him, 'Shit, no'."

"Heathens," Harry muttered, feigning irritation.

Dean hadn't been surprised in the least when Harry found himself a flat in the Muggle part of London after the war, even though he spent most of his time on the wizard side of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry valued his privacy and wasn't going to find it anywhere near Diagon Alley. And absolutely no one expected him to set foot anywhere near Grimmauld Place.

But Harry's flat in Muggle London with its big-screen television was a big attraction for all his friends. They'd made a habit of gathering every Saturday afternoon to watch football together. Ron had already switched on the pre-match warm up, and Dean distantly heard the voice of the announcer: "And Newcastle United face Norwich City in this mid-table clash - the Canaries field an unchanged line up from their successful mid-week game, but the injury-hit Magpies are definitely birds with broken wings this afternoon..."

Dean was backing the Magpies, deciding that they'd be a better match for the Hammers in the next round.

"Got an owl from Neville this week," Harry told them.

"Where's he at now?" Seamus had pulled his beer away too fast, and was noisily slurping at the foam pouring out of the top.

"Um. Austria. No, wait, that was last week. Belgium, I think. I should have remembered that. 'S about the only thing in his post I understood. I'd need a NEWT in Herbology to make sense of the rest of it."

"While we're catching up - any sign of that baby yet, Ron?" Dean asked politely. Ron's wife, Nancy, was due any day. "Ron? _Ron_!"

Seamus kicked at the redhead good-naturedly. "Ron, speak when you're spoken to."

Ron looked away from the screen in surprise. "What? Oh, sorry. What?"

Dean chuckled. It was their running joke, how easily Ron was mesmerized by television. As always, he had settled in on the sofa, his attention immediately drawn to Harry's telly with the hallmark of someone who'd still not grown used to the visual overstimulation. Commercials, talking heads, game shows - anything they threw at him sucked him in like a black hole. Dean repeated his question.

"Any time now, they say."

Harry looked at him with amusement. "And she let you out to watch football?"

Ron ruffled his hair casually as he replied, "I think she was glad to be rid of me. There's only so much of me staring at her she can take. Her mum's with her today."

"Ah, better you than me, mate," Seamus laughed.

"Considering you're not married yet, I think we'd all agree with that," Ron shot back.

"At least I have a girlfriend, which is more than I can say for a few people around here."

Dean pretended to be offended. "I've been busy."

"Not busy enough, I'd call it."

Harry politely steered the conversation back into safe territory. "Well, we all know Dean serves his mistress Art. How's the drawing coming along?"

He jumped on the change of subject like a dog on a bone. "Pretty good, actually. I've been invited to exhibit my work this month. In a Muggle gallery. There'll be an opening reception and all, so you're invited." He looked pointedly at Seamus. "Free booze, too, but you have to promise to behave yourself. Better still, bring Lydia, and she'll make sure you behave yourself."

"Come on, Dean, don't you trust me? Don't answer that."

Dean was glad when Harry finally decided to stop flitting around like a nervous host and drop into the chair holding the coats, not noticing when they slid off into a heap behind him. No one bothered to rescue them. "Still drawing people?" Harry asked.

He hesitated for a moment. He wasn't keen on mentioning who he'd been drawing lately - exclusively - but he decided it would look suspicious if he kept it secret. "I'm working with one of our old schoolmates right now. Um. Draco Malfoy."

He wondered how long it would take Seamus to break the sudden silence. Longer than he'd expected.

"You're joking." Seamus screwed up his face. "The Ferret? So are you drawing wildlife now?"

Even Ron looked up from the telly at that, and he laughed louder than Seamus. Dean felt a strong compulsion to defend the absent Malfoy.

"I don't see what's funny. He's willing to sit for me as often as I ask, and he's an excellent subject to draw." His look challenged them to deny his words.

Seamus didn't pay any attention to the defense. "But Malfoy? How can you stand to be around him? I mean, you're a filthy mudblood to him - doesn't he insult you constantly?"

"Oh, you mean like bringing up my lack of a girlfriend every time he sees me?" Dean asked pointedly, then had to duck away from the crisp Seamus tossed at him. "This may come as a surprise to you, but people change. I mean, look at us. We're not the same silly gits we were in school."

"Thank god," Harry muttered under his breath.

He pressed on. "And he's not, either. He grew up too, you know. And at all the DE trials - well, they proved he was on our side during the war, didn't they? It's not fair to keep at him like people do, thinking he's who he had to pretend to be."

Seamus was undeterred. "It sounds to me like you're actually becoming friends with him, Dean. Please tell me I'm wrong."

He looked at him coolly. "Yes. I am. We get along pretty well. He's got no one else, really. If you want to know the truth, I think he's lonely. So he comes to sit for me, and we talk. And there's nothing wrong with that, and if you say anything else, Seamus, I'll smack you."

Seamus, he knew, could recognize that tone of voice, and he gave in with humor. "Yes, boss. I hear and obey."

Ron was rummaging through a pile of _Daily Prophets_ they'd shoved off the table. "Funny you should bring up Malfoy today. I just read this morning that his father died." He apparently found what he was looking for and held it up for inspection. "See, here it is. 'Lucius Malfoy, convicted Death Eater and second in command under...blah, blah, blah....was found dead in his Azkaban cell in the early hours of the morning.' And that's all it says. There'll be no funeral, I bet."

"And good riddance," Seamus added fiercely.

"No arguments from me on that," Dean said. "Lucius was a right bastard." Still, he knew Draco would be affected by his death - even after everything he'd witnessed his father do.

"So does that mean that Malfoy gets his inheritance now?" Harry asked. Every skirmish in the battle over the Malfoy estate was prominently featured in the _Prophet,_ which reported obsessively on every twist in the legal clash.

"I don't think so. Draco told me that he thought the Ministry would keep fighting him even if his father died."

Harry wrinkled his brow, puzzling over the remark. "Why?"

"Too rich a prize, I suppose. Plus, there's still a lot of hatred for the Malfoy name in the Ministry."

"But that was Lucius. Like you said, Draco was on our side," Harry said.

"That's drawing too fine a distinction for some people. They like to keep things simple. Malfoy equals bad, right? And as long as the Ministry keeps pretending they're only going after Lucius, everyone's happy."

"Except Draco," Harry muttered.

Dean shrugged. "And how many people give a damn about what happens to Draco Malfoy? A minute ago, I was getting grief about using him as a model," he added pointedly. Seamus had the intelligence to look embarrassed.

"It isn't right," said Harry.

"No, it's not," he agreed. "And it's costing Draco a fortune in lawyer's fees to argue the point. If it drags on too long, there might not be a Malfoy fortune left to even argue over."

Ron looked baffled. "I can understand fighting over the money, but I wonder why he even wants to hang onto that old manor. You'd think it'd be horrible to live there all alone in the middle of Wiltshire. I bet it just reeks of Dark magic. They say You-Know-Who used to stay there a lot."

Seamus chimed in. "And his mother was murdered there and all, and I hear that wasn't a pretty sight, either. There's nothing there but bad memories, I'd think."

"He claims he loves it, though," Dean told him. "You wouldn't think he would, but he does. He says it's part of him." He still found the emotion with which Draco spoke of his ancestral home odd.

"That's probably why he's so weird. Strange house - strange lord. Makes sense," Seamus said.

"But it's not a strange house - not at all. It's beautiful. Not what you'd expect."

"You've been there?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Well, a couple of times," he admitted. "I expected it would be all dark and gothic and spooky, but it's not. It's gorgeous."

"Gorgeous?" Seamus echoed. "Well, with that gorgeous house and his gorgeous inheritance, I suspect our gorgeous Draco won't be lonely for very long. I expect he'll have women by the cartload beating down his gorgeous manor door."

He smothered a smile, unwilling to disabuse Seamus of his mistaken assessment for fear he'd never hear the end of that, and noticed with surprise that Harry was doing the same. So he'd worked out Malfoy's preferences, too? Well, not much got by Harry.

"Shhh, mates, it's kickoff," Ron ordered, and Dean was grateful to have the conversion end.

* * *

The match was unusually long, with the Magpies finally scoring in extra time, and the afternoon had become early evening.

"I'd better be off," Seamus announced. "I promised Lydia we'd go out for dinner."

"Yeah, me too," Ron agreed, then he stopped short. "Funny to think that this may be the last Saturday I'm here before becoming a father. It's still hard for me to believe."

Dean began gathering up the empties from the table, and his arms were rather full.

Harry looked at Ron oddly, as though he hadn't given the idea of his friend's impending fatherhood much thought. "Well, Ron, then I reckon you'll finally have something of your own that isn't second-hand."

Dean thought that was more tactless than humorous, especially coming from Harry, who was usually so careful with his jokes. It was more in Seamus' line to say something like that and follow it with his usual bark of laughter. But Harry wasn't even smiling.

Ron seemed taken aback himself, managing a weak smile but no reply.

But Harry didn't seem to notice. "I mean, even your wife is a hand-me-down, isn't she?"

The silence in the room was absolute. The three of them stared at Harry, speechless at his unexpected breach of etiquette, and Ron was growing redder with every passing second. Nancy had been previously married to a Hufflepuff who'd been killed in the war three months after their wedding.

Ron finally managed to growl out, "That's not funny, Harry."

Harry stared up at him blankly as though he hadn't said anything offensive. "I wasn't trying to be funny. Just stating a fact."

Ron looked at him coldly. "Oh. Like the fact that you're being a total prick?"

Harry looked mildly surprised at the remark, and shrugged as though he were unconcerned by Ron's reaction.

Dean had an uncomfortable feeling about the whole exchange. He must have missed something seriously important, he thought; until now Harry hadn't seemed hacked off at Ron in any way, and he hadn't had that much to drink - less than the rest of them, in fact. He nervously put down his armload of bottles, just in case Ron launched himself at Harry and he had to step in. Although Harry deserved it, really, after that last crack.

Ron looked like he was struggling to calm down. "Well, call me surprised. I didn't expect my best friend to betray me like this, Harry."

"No, that would be more in Dean's line," Harry said.

He felt a sudden sick tightening in his stomach. He didn't want to hear what Harry had to say.

Seamus forged ahead. "What are you getting at, Harry? Dean has never-"

"Oh, no? Why don't you ask him about it, Seamus? Although I'm not surprised he never told you what he did to you."

Oh, god. Please, not here....

But Harry wasn't stopping. "I don't know how he ever ended up in Gryffindor, being such a coward. Of course he wouldn't tell you that he sold you out to the Death Eaters. I daresay it's not something he's particularly proud of."

Dean tried to make sense of any of this. Why was Harry going off on them all of a sudden? And more importantly, how had Harry found out about the night he told the Death Eaters where to find Seamus? Only a few people knew - Severus. Draco. Goyle and Bryce, both dead before Harry could have talked to them. So how-

Seamus was shouting. "What the fuck are you talking about? Dean has never done anything like that. How would you know? You weren't there."

"He didn't have to tell me," Harry replied. "I know. I can see it. He even told you about it when they caught you, blubbered his sorry apologies out to you in the cell, and you forgave him anyway. Because you're as stupid as he is."

He was stunned. It was barely possible that Harry might have learned about the night they were captured. But no one else could have known about that private conversation between Seamus and him. Seamus couldn't remember it. And Dean couldn't talk about it. So how did Harry know anything? It was unimaginable.

Or it was Dark magic.

"Shut up, Harry," he said fiercely. "It's none of your business."

What came out of Harry's mouth in response was a litany of racial epithets that was sickening to hear.

Seamus lurched forward, intent on some serious damage in defense of his best friend, but Dean snatched at his arm, feeling the material of his shirt straining in his hand, and held him back.

"You bastard," Seamus screamed at Harry, trying in vain to pull away, but he held on, to the point where Seamus would be feeling bruises tomorrow.

"Seamus. Stop. This isn't Harry. Something's wrong."

"Yeah, that's obvious," the other man began, trying in vain to break free.

"No. I mean _really_ wrong. Like a spell."

Harry was staring at them as if daring them to challenge him, as if he wasn't being deliberately provocative. Ron, who up until then had been immobilized by shock, pulled out his wand at Dean's announcement and rasped out, _"Finite incantatem."_

Harry looked at him with a disdainful glance, and let loose with another string of abuse, this time directed at Seamus.

Dean tried the next spell. " _Silencio_ ," he said firmly. That should at least shut him up until they could work out what to do next.

But to their shock, Harry wasn't silenced for a moment, but continued his invective as though nothing had happened.

Alarmed, Seamus repeated the spell, but it was as ineffective as Dean's. Ron, too, attempted it, then all three tried together, but their spells were useless. Panicky, Ron screamed out, "Stupefy."

He might as well have been trying to hex a statue for all the good it did. Harry could not be stopped.

Confused, he had to shout to make himself heard over Harry's ranting. "What kind of spell can this be? It makes everything we do useless. I never heard of anything like this before."

Ron hesitated, then replied, "Maybe if we all just left him alone, he'd calm down and get over it."

Harry lunged towards Ron and shouted, "Just try leaving, you arsehole. You can't leave. You have to stay here until I'm finished with you."

Seamus snapped, "Want to bet on that, Potter?"

"Seamus, don't let him get to you. I don't think he knows what he's doing, and he probably can't control it or stop it."

"So let's leave." Ron suggested. He looked miserable, and Dean couldn't blame him. "Come on, we'll wait outside the door and see what he does when we're not here to scream at."

Dean nodded. It would be good to get away from Harry's growing insanity. Harry continued to loudly threaten them with dire consequences if they carried out their plans to leave. The three of them moved swiftly out the door into the hall, grateful to escape the madness. Ron pulled the door closed with a cathartic slam.

But their reprieve was short-lived. Through the door, Dean could hear the sudden crash of breaking glass - probably the bottles he'd abandoned - and loud thuds and slams that he didn't want to identify.

"No good," Ron said shortly, and he opened the door.

"Shit," Seamus exclaimed. "Bloody fucking shit."

In that short time he'd been alone, Harry had managed to destroy the coffee table and everything on it, and blood ran down both his arms from cuts from broken glass.

"I warned you," Harry laughed joylessly, and the sound was chilling. "I told you not to leave."

"We'd better get his wand away from him, " Ron said, his voice low. "Dean, you and I will have to pin him, and Seamus, you take it from him. He keeps it-"

"Yeah, I know," Seamus answered. "On three. One, two-"

Harry fought back like a wild beast, but the three men overpowered him and wrestled his wand away, giving Harry a new reason to berate them at the top of his lungs. Dean quietly healed the cuts on his arms, but the blood was all over everyone after their tussle, and he didn't bother with a cleaning charm.

"We need a silencing spell on the room, or the neighbors will call the bobbies in a minute."

Fortunately, they were able to successfully cloak the noise beyond the flat. It was a relief to discover that some spells still worked.

But they were unable to perform a similar spell on themselves to deafen the words to their own ears, and were forced to listen to the insults, which only seemed to be worsening. And from time to time, Harry would charge at one of them in a brief attack.

"We'll have to tie him up," Seamus said. "He's going to hurt himself one of these times." A binding spell failed to do anything except enrage him further, so they did it the old-fashioned way with rope. As soon as the last knot was fixed, Harry began to scream, a piercing howl that chilled them completely. Long minutes passed, and Harry showed no signs of tiring.

"I don't think I can stand this," Ron said weakly. "We need to untie him again."

"We've got to get some help," Dean said over Harry's wails. The knots were loosened, and Harry's cries faded - but not his words, which continued unabated.

"I'm going to try to call Hermione," Ron answered. "She'll know what to do."

He hoped so, for all their sakes. He was physically drained from repelling Harry's attacks against them, and emotionally devastated from watching Harry fall apart so dramatically.

He saw Hermione's head in the fireplace, and could barely hear Ron's explanations over Harry's cries.

"She's tracking it down and sending us help," Ron reported when Hermione finally disappeared. "And letting Nancy and Lydia know where we are, in case we're here a while."

Dean didn't allow himself to even consider how long this might last. For this to happen to anyone was horrible enough; for it to happen to Harry was doubly tragic. But it seemed that regardless of anyone's wishes, everything bad seemed to happen to Harry. Again and again. He had no doubt that he'd been deliberately targeted because of who he was. He'd hoped - hell, everybody hoped - that the end of the war and the end of Voldemort would bring an end to Harry's problems. But then, the war had never really ended as cleanly as everyone pretended. Enough shadowy figures from the past still lurked in secret meetings and dark corners, enough to keep the Aurors busy since the end of the war.

But their plans hadn't been successful until tonight.

* * *

The evening had brought reinforcements, but no solutions. Hermione had rustled up anyone in London she could think to send - Remus Lupin, Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks, Arthur Weasley - all had come in a mad rush of concern and useless spells. Most had gone off again, back to the Ministry or to the library, or who-knew-where to dig up any nuggets that would help them stop Harry's mad diatribes. Seamus had finally given up and gone home a few hours ago, begging off with sincere apologies. Dean was glad to see him, at least, escape for a while.

He peered at his watch in the dim light - 2:30. Harry had at last subsided into hoarse panting before finally - _finally_ \- collapsing into sleep on the couch about an hour ago. Ron had nodded off in a nearby chair, his long arms and legs uncomfortably arranged into too small a space. Lupin had wandered off into Harry's bed with firm instructions to wake him at the sign of any change.

Dean was still trying to calm himself from the adrenalin pounding through him. Harry's unexpected disclosure, of his capture and betrayal, still disturbed him enormously. After Draco had restored his memory, he'd been trying to decide the best way to approach Seamus with the knowledge. But it was so hard. Seamus had forgiven him once, and he didn't know if he'd be so noble-minded again. They'd gone on during the war to become even more dependent on each other, and he didn't want anything to destroy their special bond. He had always mean to tell Seamus sooner, rather than later; Harry had only sparked what was inevitable.

Rustling sounds from the couch made him aware that Harry was stirring. He saw his eyes, so vulnerable without his glasses, flick open and take in his unusual situation. Harry looked calmer, and Dean felt a small rush of hope.

"Harry," he said softly.

"Dean," Harry replied in a horribly rough voice. His hands scrabbled for his glasses, and Dean leant over and pressed them into his hand. He fumbled them on, then turned to face his friend.

"Oh, my god, Dean. I..." Dean could see the horror pass over his face.

"Harry. It's okay. How do you feel?"

Harry swung his feet from the couch and sat up slowly. "Like shit. What happened? Did I..." He took one look at Dean's concerned, steady gaze, and dropped his head into his hands. "It wasn't a dream, was it? I really said all those things, didn't I?"

"It's okay, Harry," he repeated, trying to sound calm, hugely relieved that Harry seemed to be himself again.

"The things I said. Oh, god, Dean, I don't know why I said any of it. And then...." He looked at his arms in disbelief. Traces of blood from his earlier rampage darkened his shirt. "Oh, shit. I'm so sorry."

"Do you remember it all?"

Harry looked so horrified that he knew the answer before Harry could say it.

"I wish I didn't. I remember every bloody minute. Oh, Dean-"

"Well, we sussed pretty quick that you weren't yourself," he interrupted, trying to reassure Harry as best he could. "Someone put a spell on you. It's over now, though. Take it easy."

Ron stirred at their rising voices, waking up with a start. "Harry."

"He's fine, Ron," Dean said quickly. "It's over."

Ron slid over to Harry's side in an instant, running a comforting hand up and down his back. "Shit, Harry, you scared us half to death. What was that all about, eh?"

Harry smiled ruefully at his friend. "Damned if I know. I'm really sorry. You've got to believe that I didn't mean any of the things I said."

"I know that, mate. Forget it."

"So what do you think happened?" Dean asked.

"I don't even know. I mean we were all just sitting there, watching the game, then I started to feel - I don't know, hateful, I reckon." He cleared his voice, which was still hoarse from screaming, and looked away. "I wanted to say the most spiteful, vicious things I could, to just pay you all back for - well I don't even know for what. And I couldn't stop myself at all. It just came out." He looked first at Ron, then at Dean. "But it wasn't like I was telling you things I honestly believe and just keep hidden from you. I don't think those things at all!"

"I know you don't," Ron reassured him.

"But it was like being taken over, you know? Like Imperius. Oh, god..." he trailed off, again overwhelmed by his remembered actions.

"Harry, listen," Dean said, then hesitated. "The things you said about Seamus and me. About the betrayal." It was hard to say in front of Ron, but it had to be done. "How did you know about that?"

Harry absent-mindedly ran his hands through his hair, and Dean could see him trying to think back to the beginning of the evening. "I could see it. A room, small, no windows, with just you and Seamus, and you were held against a wall under a binding spell. I could see Seamus, but not you. I could hear what you were both saying, though. You told him how you betrayed him, and he forgave you. But it wasn't real, was it?"

Harry had read his thoughts. Dean couldn't imagine a worse combination - under this weird spell, it seemed that Harry could tap the inner secrets of those around him and let fly with the worse possible insults. Dean was horrified at his secrets being laid bare so callously and abruptly.

"I think I'll go get Remus, to let him know you're okay."

And he was okay, for the rest of the night, and into the next day. His friends dropped by to reassure themselves about his state, unable to explain what had happened but fully confident that he was back to normal, encouraging him to rest and take it easy. He obliged them all, and was the very model of a perfectly compliant patient.

And then, shortly after dinner to everyone's horror, it started all over again.

* * *

Over a week later, Harry's curse still showed no signs of abating. The uncontrolled ranting would begin in the early evening, and Harry found himself compelled to rave at and humiliate anyone within range until, after many long, painful hours, he collapsed in exhaustion.

His friends had the double worry of making sure someone stayed with him every evening - not a task any of them relished after their first night - while at the same time keeping the details out of the _Daily Prophet_.

Hermione served as the liaison between Harry and the Ministry's experts. After the first horrific night, they'd all agreed that they needed to track down someone with expertise in Dark curses. With some difficulty, she'd managed to snag that plum assignment.

"It only makes sense that the Department of Mysteries work on it," she told Dean. She'd recently been promoted into that prestigious branch. She'd joked that she could tell him what she did there, but then she'd have to kill him. He half-believed her.

"Who else was lobbying for the assignment?" he asked.

"Well, the Aurors, of course. And Percy Weasley's group in M.U. - sorry, Mop-Up, the folks who track down rogue Death Eaters."

His eyebrows shot up. "They think Death Eaters are behind it?"

She nodded. "It makes sense, don't you think? I mean, we're talking about Harry Potter."

"Right."

"Anyway, Mop-Up was pulling strings to take over the assignment, until our chief went over their chief's head, right to Tabernash. Long story short, we're on the case now."

He looked at her suspiciously. "And you had nothing to do with that?"

She laughed. "Well, not that I'll admit. God, Dean, office politics - you have no idea. You should be glad you work for yourself."

So far the search done by Hermione's group to unearth the curse had been fruitless. Virtually no one had heard of a curse with this effect, no books they'd found had listed it, and they were stymied as to any cure.

Dean thought that the worst part was that Harry was able to remember everything he'd been forced to utter, and of course, he always was miserably apologetic afterwards. After only nine days, those willing to bear his abuse for the evening had narrowed considerably to a handful of friends.

He had just served a shift the previous evening and was still recovering from the experience. All in all, he decided, it was probably a bad day to have chosen for Malfoy to remove the memory charm from Seamus, but he'd planned it and intended to go through with it.

Malfoy hadn't put up any resistance to the idea, to his credit. And after Harry had somehow tapped into Dean's own memories, it was something that needed to be done soon.

He heard Malfoy Flooing into his living room, and hurried to greet him.

After rudimentary greetings, Dean told him, "Seamus isn't coming for another hour, so I thought we could work a bit beforehand."

Malfoy's lips curled slightly. "Sneaky, aren't you? For a Gryffindor, that is." But he followed Dean into the room where they often worked together as artist and model. Not for the first time did Dean wonder exactly why Malfoy continued to sit for him, without recompense or recognition. Back when they were in school, he wouldn't have thought it possible that one day they could be...well, friends, he supposed. He found himself increasingly comfortable in Malfoy's company, and thought he could detect the same towards himself as well.

They did have some elemental temperament in common. He was surprised to discover in Draco a fundamentally calm, composed disposition, far removed from the childish tantrums he used to have. Not that he was completely unrecognizable - Draco could still come off as undeniably self-centered and caustic at times. But the intervening years, his losses, and the war had all somehow softened him.

He'd grown to appreciate his steady nature, his sharp wit, and his obvious intelligence. He suspected that Malfoy was - hell, maybe always had been - basically lonely and isolated. Well, he wasn't the only war veteran who'd ended up that way.

So they spent long hours together, with their quiet conversation and Dean's almost silent pencils the only sound. Their discussions ranged from Ministry politics, gossip about former Hogwarts classmates, and discussion of mutual acquaintances, including their most famous schoolmate - Harry Potter.

Draco no longer used any of the nicknames he'd been known to toss off in school - Prat-Who-Lived, Potty, Gryffindork - and asked about him without any animosity. Dean tried to be as factual as he could about the current crisis in Harry's calamitous life.

"Things aren't going so well for him at the moment."

"In what way?"

"There's been some kind of curse cast on him." He couldn't help noticing that Draco became rigid at the news. "A strange curse. It makes him criticize his friends." To put it mildly.

"What do you mean? Criticize his friends - how?"

"Well, so far it's just verbal stuff. I reckon you would call it talking trash. Nasty stuff, though. Somehow he seems to be able to get you right where it hurts the most."

Draco frowned. "Go on."

"The worst part is that he can't be left alone. Someone's got to be with him when he's going though this, because he turns violent. It's pretty hard. We all take turns."

"Do you know why... I mean, do you sit with him, too?"

"Sometimes. It's a rough job, that. I mean, we all realize he can't help it. When it's over, he just feels terrible about it, you know. It's absolutely not his fault. Of all the people this had to happen to - he's already been through so much. Why him?"

"Because I can," Draco said softly.

"What?" He noticed Draco resisting the urge to turn from his position.

"It sounds bad."

"At least he's only affected during part of the day. Evenings, so far."

"How long has this been happening to him?"

"A week and a half. They've asked some of the Ministry experts to research the curse, of course. Hermione is involved through her department."

"Have they had any luck, then?"

"No. Not so far. But we're hoping they come up with something soon. It's horrible, Draco. Like being with a human dementor - he just sucks the happiness right out of you. And when it's all over, he remembers every word and just feels like shit about it."

Draco had nothing more to say.

But at the end of their hour together, he realized, he found he had drawn a portrait of Malfoy that seemed almost devastating in its sorrow.

* * *

Seamus' arrival was almost anticlimactic. Draco greeted him politely enough, and Dean explained briefly about the memory charm cast on him so long ago. A short _finite incantatem_ later, Draco said a brief farewell, leaving Dean to face Seamus once again.

Seamus was uncharacteristically quiet.

"Malfoy gave me my memories back about three weeks ago," Dean began. "I mean, you and I both had some inkling he was involved, even then, but something was eating at me about the whole episode. He hadn't completely erased my memories of that night. I always remembered the way I'd betrayed you."

Seamus didn't say anything.

"But eventually I decided that I wanted you to remember everything, too. I know you've been wondering about me lately. Hell, for months, really. I didn't feel comfortable knowing you thought I was your great friend. I.... Well. I feel like a fraud. Now you know what I made of your friendship."

" _Don't_ ," Seamus barked suddenly. Dean tensed, waiting for Seamus to continue, but that was apparently it.

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Seamus. I was sorry then, and I'm even more sorry now. I have no excuses for what I did to you. I betrayed you completely."

Seamus tipped his head and looked at him directly. "Look, Dean. I forgave you already. Didn't you get that, you great git? Do you think I'm going to take it back now?"

"Well. Yes," he managed to stutter.

"But why would I? You told me your reasons. In your place, I would have probably done the same thing."

"No, you wouldn't-"

"Dean." The name was said with such force that he had to stop anticipating his next response and listen. "I was never tested. I was lucky in that. I'm no more noble than anyone else. Who knows what I would have done in your place? But you did what you thought you needed to do in the circumstances, and you apologized, and I forgave you. I forgive you."

And at that moment, Dean felt like the most fortunate person alive.

* * *

_They've got a name for the winners in the world; I want a name when I lose._  
Deacon Blues - Steely Dan

. . . . . . . .

Draco waved away any of Sully's suggestions of dinner. His appetite had fled, thoughts of food vanished. Grim thoughts of Dean's unwitting revelations about Potter rushed in to replace them - about the long-forgotten curse, easy, careless words spoken in the early afternoon of the beautiful autumn day years ago that had been such a watershed event in his life. How could he have forgotten?

_Because I can._

At the time, he'd only been worried about the rest of his father's discussion. What he'd learnt that day led him to Severus, and the Order, and all that had resulted in its aftermath. The curse - what was it even called? - was merely a footnote to larger matters, something easily disregarded and put off. Something that wouldn't even take effect until Lucius' death, an eternity in the future to him. At least at the time.

But magic never forgot as easily as wizards too often did. Predictable, inescapable, destined, the spell had been veiled like a secret cancer. Hidden until the fateful day when Lucius could no longer struggle against the emptiness in his soul, and he'd escaped forever. Dead. Then the poisonous words of the spell came to life in the wake of his mortality.

And Draco knew - as surely as he knew his place in the world - what would happen to him. The brightest minds, the most tenacious curse-breakers, the might and power of the Ministry were already at work to restore their most precious symbol - the Man Who Lived and Defeated Voldemort. Soon - likely quite soon - someone would connect Potter's curse to his father. Someone would identify the enchantment. And with Lucius gone and no immediate scapegoat to hand, Draco knew exactly where they would look for blame. And for revenge.

He stalked over to his well-furnished bar and thumbed open a bottle of scotch, pouring a generous amount into a finely crafted glass. Under the circumstances, he wasn't interested in eating dinner - drinking it looked far more appealing.

His lawyers had continued to assure him that his support in the Wizengamot was growing. The Ministry's efforts to strip the Manor from him could well fail if enough sympathy existed for him - being the only allegedly respectable Malfoy in a long time. But since the war, every witness before the Wizengamot was required to testify under Veritaserum, and it would be quick work for the Ministry to compel him to confess that he knew about his father's curse and did nothing to stop his father or to warn Potter.

And wouldn't that play out nicely? _Yes, sir, I heard my father, Lucius Malfoy, cast a Dark curse on Harry Potter. No, he wasn't out to destroy the savior of the wizard world. Actually, he was only showing off for me. Potter just happened to be walking by._

_Why? Because that's the kind of people the Malfoys are, isn't it?_ _Because we can._

And with that admission, he would lose the Manor. And if he lost the Manor, he would be in grave danger of losing himself.

But he didn't know what to do about it.

His glass was already empty. He knew what to do about that, at least.

He sat quietly, watching the fire that was fueled by more than wood, as it crackled but never diminished. He let the glowing flames help his mind wander back, eased by the scotch, to the evening spent in his father's study. He'd been paying scant attention to the spells Lucius researched that night. It went without saying that they were Dark curses. But that night in particular, he was certain, he was exploring foreign curses.

He abruptly remembered the story Lucius made up to illustrate the curse for his skeptical son. About lovers. The jilted lover's curse, that was it. And the lovers were called Juan and Maria and Consuelo. A Spanish curse.

He needed to find the book that his father had used. It had to be here in the house, most probably in his father's study. Suddenly energized, he rose and walked to the door. He hesitated and then headed to the bar instead, commandeering the bottle. He detested revisiting Lucius' study, a place too saturated with his father's presence, and avoided it as much as he could. He could use more bottled courage.

A shiver passed over him as he threw open the door to the study. _Get a bloody grip_ , he thought. _It's just an empty room_.

" _Lumos_ ," he commanded, a little too loudly. The lights sprang up.

Everything was unchanged from the last time he'd seen his father here. His eyes went automatically to the chair where Lucius had spent countless hours, and he deliberately forced himself to look away. He could almost smell the distinctive aroma of him, that unique combination of expensive toiletries and polished leather, tinged with the tobacco that he'd infrequently indulged in. Even the shadows seemed to echo his shape.

He admitted that maybe the scotch had been a bad idea after all - he was becoming irrationally edgy. Best to do the search and get the hell out of here. There was a good reason he avoided this place.

He deliberated about how to conduct his search with minimal disruption: too broad a request might leave him buried in books. After careful consideration, made more difficult by his haziness from the whisky, he drew out his wand.

" _Accio_ spell book of Iberian curses," he intoned cautiously, and prepared to duck.

As he watched, three books lifted themselves off their shelves and sailed quickly towards him. He managed to snatch the first two and free a hand to catch the third before it hit him. Good to know that Seeker's reflexes were good for something besides Quidditch.

He refused to linger here to peruse the three books. A quick " _Nox_ " and a slammed door, and he was back in the hall, trying not to sigh with relief. He hurried back to his own rooms.

He hadn't remembered looking at the book in his father's hands, so any of the three books were a possibility. All three were in Spanish, so he recited a translation spell, opting for the more complex version to make sure the words were accurate.

The first book seemed to concentrate on potions and remedies, so he set that one aside. The second book seemed respectably old and fragile. Opening the cover, he found the pages blank, but that failed to discourage him. Every Malfoy worth his salt knew at least ten incantations to unlock Dark spell books. He hit the correct one on his fourth try.

There were fewer actual spells in these pages than he expected, so he uncovered it soon enough. Listed under "Revenge Curses", it ran for many pages. As he remembered, the words of the curse were not extremely involved, and the description of how to cast it barely covered a single page, so he was mystified at the length of the chapter. He settled back to read.

**_The Effects of this most horrible spell on the cursed victim_ **

_The spell will return every evening, beginning at sundown and ending when the victim is exhausted._

_The victim will be compelled to speak the most abominable words to everyone._

_The victim will gain the ability to perceive the worst secrets and most hidden faults of those around them._

_If left alone, the victim will effect serious damage to objects and then themselves._

_Silencing spells will not work on or near the victim._

_Stunning spells will not work on or near the victim._

_Binding spells will not work on or near the victim._

There was an illustration of someone cursed by the spell, a woman soundlessly shrieking at a group of horrified onlookers. One bystander was creeping up behind the woman with an axe. As he watched, the stalking figure brought the blade down with a sudden swing, splitting open the victim's skull and flooding the page with bright red blood. Sickened, he had to look away, grateful that the frightening image had no audible sound.

So this was the curse Potter suffered through every night. No wonder the Ministry was up in arms.

His heart sped up when he read the next line.

**_How to break the curse._ **

_The curse makes its victim unable to stop speaking. To break the spell, someone must undertake a secret vow of silence for the victim. Only then will the curse end._

_The curse breaker shall announce to the world that he or she will no longer communicate, but must not give any reason for the vow of silence. The final words that the curse breaker will speak are those of the incantation to begin the vow of silence._

_The curse permits only one attempt to break it. If the curse-breaker fails, the curse will continue until the end of the victim's life._

So the curse breaking involved Exchange magic. Not unheard of, certainly, even in magic that wasn't Dark. An action to counter another action. He read on.

_The vow must endure for six months and five weeks and four days and three hours and two minutes and one second._

How poetic. He recognized the power of its pattern from Arithmancy. He'd been working on numerical patterns like this on the evening he fled Hogwarts.

**_A partial list of forbidden actions of the curse breaker:_ **

_You may not speak._

_You may not write._

_You may not nod or shake your head in response._

_You may not spell out words in any way._

_You may not sign your name._

_You may not tell any person in advance why you are not communicating._

**_A partial list of permissible actions of the curse breaker:_ **

_You may smile._

_You may laugh._

_You may cry._

_You may touch._

_You may kiss._

Draco laughed out loud at that last entry. He couldn't imagine a curse breaker having much of an opportunity for a love life without the ability to communicate. Amused, he turned the page.

The list continued for page after page, with points delineated in exacting detail. Each item described what was within the spirit of the vow of silence and what was forbidden. He didn't bother to read each entry in detail, but the substance was clear: any attempt to intentionally communicate to any person would lead to failure and cause the spell to remain on the victim for life. He idly wondered how all of these nuances had been discovered - probably some very unpleasant trial and error.

He wished he could see Potter under the spell just once.

He realized that he had been examining these rules as if he were actually contemplating breaking Potter's curse. And that was a step he couldn't take lightly. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him - half the wizarding world would gladly bear any burden that would free their idol from his unbearable affliction. Potter's Gryffindor friends would gladly clam up for decades on his behalf.

And Draco was about the last person, in his own mind or anyone else's, who would voluntarily choose to break the curse.

But if he wanted to keep the Manor, he was the only one who could. Because both the curse and the cure must remain secret - Lucius' involvement must never be exposed. And the vow of silence could not be explained, which bolstered the secrecy he needed. In some strange way, he found it intriguing. And challenging.

But he refused to commit himself. He would give himself one week, he decided. One week to consider all the implications if he were to try to break the curse, although he already saw a few obvious pitfalls. Well, it wasn't as though he would have to give up a rich social life. He rarely saw anyone these days - Severus was his chief contact, and he was hardly the convivial type. But Draco did need to use words to give orders to his house-elf. And more importantly, to do nearly all magic.

But for the first time since Dean Thomas had told him about Potter's curse, he held out some small hope of not losing everything that mattered to him.

_Because I can._

* * *

_Meeting on the road to Basra, you half-blind in a blood-soaked coat,_  
Me, I'm a fallen angel, fallen from the burning tree of doubt.  
God's Alibi - Capercaillie

. . . . . . . .

Draco got his wish to observe Potter's curse sooner than he thought.

He was again sitting for Dean one early evening, casually chatting as they often did during their increasingly frequent sessions. He'd learned to enjoy the easy give-and-take of Dean's bantering comments. He would never admit it to the other man, but he felt as though his life had some meager purpose again. No matter that he actually did very little when he was here; what mattered was that someone needed him.

Never before had he spent time with someone so unlike him. For the first time, he allowed himself to look beyond the obvious labels - Muggle-born, poor, Gryffindor - he'd always fallen back on to shut out strangers, and he let himself learn about this unusual man. Dean wasn't the chatterbox that his friend Finnigan was, but he didn't mind sharing stories about his past with Draco. And he didn't feel the urge to make Draco talk about his own past in return.

This evening, they were discussing Dean's parents. Draco was intrigued at the description of a warm, intimate home life that neither he nor many of his Slytherin friends had ever had.

"Mum and Dad didn't know anything about the wizarding stuff, you know," Dean said. "But they always knew there was something odd about me, with unexplained magic popping out at odd times. Then the letter came from Hogwarts. And Arthur Weasley came to our house to explain it to us."

Draco found his interest growing. He'd never really thought about what it must be like for a Muggle family to find out about Hogwarts for the first time. "Why Weasley?"

"Oh, he was rather good at the explanation side of things. He comes across as non-threatening, for starters. It was a pretty overwhelming thing to happen to our family, and we all had a million questions. He made it all seem special - in a really good way."

"So were you afraid at all?"

He watched Dean's brow furrow in thought for a moment before answering. "Not as much as you'd think, really. I guess we all were relieved to finally have an explanation for the strange things that happened around me. I was excited. I was the fourth of six kids - I tended to get overlooked a bit in that crowd. So I felt unique. You can bet my brothers and sisters were pretty jealous of me after that." He grinned. "And I admit I liked that."

"What do they think of you now?" he asked, but he never got an answer. The fireplace flared into sudden brightness, and Granger's head appeared. She was talking quickly and loudly the second she was solid enough to do so.

"Dean, I need help with Harry. Can you come right away?"

Dean had already tossed down his charcoal pencil and stepped back from his drawing. He didn't waste time asking for details. "Coming. We'll be right there."

Draco, noting the use of the word "we", looked at him with surprise.

"Draco, do you mind? We may need your help, too. But look, if you don't want to come-"

"No, I'll go with you," he answered, trying not to appear curious about Potter's condition. He didn't want to seem like a voyeur, but he relished this unexpected opportunity to see the curse in action.

A few minutes later, he was brushing himself off in what was apparently Potter's living room. It took a few seconds to acclimate himself to his new surroundings. Loud, harsh shouts emanated from an adjoining room, punctuated by the jarring sounds of something - a lot of somethings - smashing. He heard Granger's voice, too, shouting _wingardium leviosa_ again and again. Dean ran towards the commotion and Draco followed.

"Harry. _Harry_. Stop it," Dean said loudly.

From the doorway of the kitchen, Draco saw Potter turn abruptly at the sound of the new voice. Granger's look of relief at their arrival was palpable. Around them, shards of dishes littered the floor; more than a few were suspended in midair by Granger's spells and hovered like strange birds around the room.

"Thank god you made it," she said. "I couldn't handle him tonight."

Potter's one-man rampage was arrested by Dean's presence. Draco watched Potter's face transform from a look of unremitting rage to a more devious, calculating smile.

"Dean Thomas. My favorite Judas. So nice of you to stop by."

Both Potter and Granger recognized Draco at the same time. Granger's alarm was noticeable, but she said nothing. Potter, however, covered his initial shock with a more disturbing expression - anticipation, perhaps, or fiendish amusement.

"Well, well. Draco Malfoy. What a surprise." He ignored Dean and strode to the doorway where Draco stood unmoving. " I haven't seen you since your father's trial. No, wait - I believe it was your mother's funeral."

"Potter." He nodded a greeting but held himself remote, curbing any display of emotion on his face.

"Come to see the circus freak, have you? Did you feel the need to gloat over how far the mighty have fallen?" Potter's voice lowered, until he sounded almost threatening. "Just remember, Malfoy, it's just one of _many_ things we have in common."

"You're right, of course," he answered calmly.

"Like the fact that we both had parents who died for us. Although in your mother's case, I'd say more accurately it was _because_ of you."

At one time, he supposed, Potter's sharp remarks would have goaded him into answering with fists, but he was clinically detached from responding with emotion. Instead, Potter's behavior was riveting.

But Granger didn't know that. Her anxiety was becoming visibly pronounced, until finally she made herself say what was on her mind. "It may not have been the best thing for you to come, Malfoy. Harry can't help what he says, and it gets ugly."

Dean tried to intercede. "He was with me when you called me, Hermione. I thought from the sound of things, you'd need us both."

Granger looked decidedly ill at ease. Draco knew what she wanted to say, and he was curious how she would manage to phrase it without being blatantly insulting.

"I appreciate your concern, Dean, but - well, no offense, Malfoy - with their past history, maybe he wasn't the best choice. Harry has too much ammunition he can use against him." _And vice-versa_ was left unsaid.

Draco held up a hand. "Maybe I'm a better choice than you think. Don't you know I've heard it all before? There's nothing Potter can say to me I haven't had to deal with a hundred times. He can't come up with anything I don't already agree with. It doesn't affect me anymore."

That made Potter laugh. "My god, Malfoy, you haven't changed at all. You're still the biggest fraud to come out of Hogwarts. And here I thought Hermione was the ultimate sanctimonious bitch. You'd give her a run for the title."

But Draco only chuckled. He took Potter by the arm, and Potter let him. "Let's go have a seat in the living room," he urged. "Let these two clean up your little mess while we catch up with each other." He caught Dean and Granger exchanging dubious glances, but he didn't have time to convince them of his sincerity.

At least for the moment, Potter was finding him amusing. "By all means. You can tell me all about what it was like to bugger your way through the Death Eater ranks." Draco led them to the sofa, leaving Dean and Granger to sort out the disaster in the kitchen.

Potter's eyes were unusually bright and wild, and his smile was sinister, a combination that, to his surprise, Draco found seductive. Maybe because he understood this curse, as no one else around him did, he found he wasn't afraid at all - instead, he was fascinated.

Potter spoke up. "So here we are, two fucked-up orphan boys. Well, except your father's not dead yet - or is he? It's hard to make that call. Anyway, I suppose we should be bonding or something." He smirked, an expression incongruous with what Draco remembered of him. "But I'd hate to interfere with the special love you and your father shared."

He recognized the provocation, but let it slide. "Sorry, Potter, that's a miss. Whatever sins I've committed, incest wasn't one of them."

Potter looked at him deliberately for a long moment. "No. I can see that now. You were too busy trying to fuck Snape. But unfortunately for you, he turned you down. Just your luck, he's straight and didn't want to bugger you." Potter closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, there was a peculiar sharpness there. "That was the night you kissed me in the corridor. Christ, Malfoy, you were horny for anyone's cock, weren't you? And not too picky about whose. And all this time I thought we'd shared a special moment that night."

Belatedly, Draco remembered that the curse afforded its victim some powers of Legilimens. He quickly called up his resistance, once so familiar a defense during the war, but now something he never used.

Potter recognized his newly-raised defenses. "Malfoy, you're hiding."

He smiled. "Yes. Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not polite to snoop in someone's mind?"

"No matter. There's enough written about your pitiful life in the _Daily Prophet_. Our reclusive bachelor hero. No family, no friends, no fucking."

He wasn't surprised that Granger and Dean seemed to be in no hurry to rejoin them in the living room. Potter kept up his attacks against him for the rest of the evening. Draco didn't know which was worse: listening to Potter under the influence of the curse or hearing him afterwards, full of sorrowful apologies and anguished repentance.

But when he left, he had decided what he had to do.

* * *

For the rest of the week, Draco diligently studied the spell and memorized its restrictions, until he felt he understood the curse's subtle rules without having to think about them too hard.

Next, he challenged himself to forego speaking, merely to explore his ability to perform magic. It was frustrating, but not impossible. He could still Apparate, so getting around wasn't an insurmountable problem. However, nearly every other spell he knew required words, and his automatic impulse to use magic for the simplest of tasks was a frustrating problem. His first attempt at silence lasted a meager twenty minutes. By the end of the first day, he'd managed to increase that to nearly three hours, but he went to bed that night with a gnawing fear that his weak control would ruin his attempt to break the curse and would lead to disaster.

Sully seemed enormously confused at first by his peculiar behavior. It dawned on him that she could prove invaluable if he could take advantage of her magical abilities. He began to speculate about how to secure her help without jeopardizing the cursebreaking, and dug into the Spanish book to analyze the risks.

"Sully. What do you do when I sit down at the dining room table?" he asked her.

She looked at him blankly. "What is Master Draco wanting?"

He sighed. Abstract thinking was not an expected part of house-elf behavior. "I wondered what you would think I wanted, if I sat down at the table."

She didn't answer at all. It was beyond her, he thought, with growing frustration.

"Come here," he told her. He led her in to the dining room and sat at the table. She watched him with wariness and alarm.

"Has I done something bad?" she asked, her voice quaking nervously.

"No, Sully. I want to show you something. What usually happens after I sit down like this?"

She twisted her hands and took a step back. "Master asks for his food."

"Right. I do. But what if I didn't ask? What would you do?"

"I would wait until Master asked?" she ventured.

He sighed. "What if I never asked, Sully? Would you let me starve?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh, no, Master Draco. Sully is never letting you starve. Sully is taking good care of Master Draco." She looked pitiful, with her ears drooping and her mouth drawn into a pursed frown.

"Yes. You do take good care of me. Right." Patience, he told himself. "So if I never asked for anything, and sat down here, and it was time for me to eat...."

"Sully would bring Master Draco something to eat?"

"Exactly. That's exactly right. You'd bring me something to eat." She beamed at him, and he let out a breath. "You'd bring me whatever you usually do - breakfast foods in the morning. And...."

There was a long silence. Then, finally, "Dinner foods at dinner?"

He smiled. "Right again. Very good. Any of the things you've prepared for me before. You can decide what that might be, can't you?" It could be a long, boring seven months if she saw fit to feed him the same meal every day, and he was encouraged when she nodded. He stood up and told her, "Follow me."

He led her down the hall and into his study. "Okay, it's dark in here. What should you do?"

She smiled. "I is lighting the candles." No problem there; she did that as a rule.

"And if I was cold, and I moved over to the fire..."

"I is lighting the fire for Master Draco."

He sat in his customary chair. "And when I sit here and move this table a little closer, I am probably thinking I'd like some..."

"Tea!" she squealed.

"Very good, Sully. You're on a roll."

She frowned. "But I is standing on the carpet, Master Draco."

"Um, yes, just a figure of speech."

For once, he was glad he'd been leading such a predictable life. They quickly worked out a method of identifying tasks and deciding what she should do about them, and he was pleased to discover that Sully was easily trained. She indulged him in this odd question-and-answer game with increasing good spirits, growing more excited when he praised her initiative. He began to perk up. There was every reason to think that she could do this - but could he?

He'd worked his way to a record of three days, four hours, and some odd minutes of silence, before he accidentally muttered a quick " _Lumos_ " one evening, followed by a shouted "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ," when he realized what he had done. This wasn't going to be anywhere close to good enough. The curse didn't allow for _almost_. Just one word at the wrong time, one mistaken nod of his head, and the curse would become permanent and Potter would never be free of it. More to the point, the Ministry would undoubtedly discover his failed attempt, and he'd be lucky if a permanent home in Azkaban was the only outcome.

That night, he had his first nightmare about the curse. He and Potter were walking across the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. Potter's mouth was moving, saying something, but Draco couldn't hear what it was.

Annoyed, he turned and uttered, " _What_?", but when he opened his mouth, dozens of arrows shot out with shocking force, impaling Potter against the wooden wall of the stand in a horribly gory display. Draco woke up panting and shaking. _Oh, god_.

Inspiration struck the next morning. He took a short trip into Muggle London, returning as the proud, if not a little sore, owner of a tongue stud. He'd been fidgeting with it ever since, unable to become accustomed to the strange invader. But he'd needed a tangible reminder to keep quiet. When Severus finds out about it, he thought with amusement, he'll go mad. It may have been worth the pain just to see his reaction.

Nine days, seven hours, and fourteen minutes, and he hadn't yet broken his silence.

He was ready.

A manor owl was ready to take his instructions to his attorney, Redmund. He'd sent a long, detailed letter the day before with everything he thought the firm would need to continue the fight against the Ministry. Today, he was composing an announcement to be printed in the _Daily Prophet_. Sealing it carefully, he attached it to his eagle owl, slipping her a treat before releasing her.

Now that he'd made up his mind and set the wheels in motion, he found himself growing apprehensive, even more than he'd foreseen. He decided to move to a more comfortable room to initiate the counter curse, and was at a loss at first to choose an appropriate place. He recognized with some alarm that the list of rooms he now avoided had grown longer. None frequented by his mother or Lucius. None that reminded him of past DE members or their social events. None graced with portraits of past Malfoys. Chagrined, he settled on his own bedroom.

He carried the book of spells with him, feeling the weight and dust of ages in its covers where it rested on his legs. Leafing open to the page he needed, he settled himself and began to utter the incantation that would embark him on his journey to break the spell over Harry Potter, all the time fully aware of the irony of his task.

If all went according to plan, these would be his last words for months. To be specific, for six months, five weeks, four days, three hours, two minutes, and one second.

* * *

"My word, Severus, just what is your boy Malfoy up to?" asked Flitwick over breakfast in the Great Hall. The question took him unawares - Flitwick was notably quiet over the morning meal, preferring to indulge in a thorough reading of the _Daily Prophet_ rather than conversing with his neighbors. This state of affairs suited Severus just fine; in fact, it was the main reason he chose to sit next to him at the head table every day.

"In the first place, he is not _my boy_. And in the second place, I have no idea what you might be referring to."

Apparently Flitwick had said all he was going to say for the morning, because he simply handed over the _Prophet_ without another word.

He had to scan the page for several moments, because he didn't know what he was looking for. He checked through the main articles - _Ministry employee caught changing weather for Quidditch matches_ \- _George and Luna Weasley proud parents of triplets -_ oh, Merlin help us _\- Opening talks of Werewolf Council begin._ Nothing about Draco. Finally, he noticed the black-edged formal announcement from Redmund, Hall, and Strongfellows. It read:

Mr. Draco Malfoy, of Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire,  
wishes to announce that  
he has taken a vow of silence  
and will no longer communicate in any manner.  
He regrets any inconvenience that may arise from his action.  
Further queries may be sent to  
Redmund, Hall, and Strongfellows  
Diagon Alley

As simple as it was, he had to read it through several times before he was able to absorb it.

Flitwick was looking at him curiously. "I take it you are as caught out by this as everyone else," he remarked.

He couldn't even manage a sarcastic comment in reply, so great was his astonishment. "I know nothing about this."

"Very unusual." Whether he referred to Draco's announcement or Severus's ignorance he didn't clarify.

Severus lapsed into silence, and Flitwick seemed content to let the conversation drop.

He had absolutely no idea what had triggered this bizarre behavior in his former protege. He'd last seen him shortly after his father's death. There had been no memorial service, of course, but the two of them sat together in the Manor and drank to the man that Lucius had been long ago while avoiding thinking about the man he had become. He thought that Draco had seemed resigned to his death. Certainly he'd seen nothing odd in his behavior that would account for this sudden decision. They had owled each other a few times in the weeks since - Draco was still far too isolated, in his opinion, but he'd mentioned spending time with Dean Thomas, modeling for him, of all things.

 _He regrets any inconvenience...._ Severus held back a harsh laugh as he contemplated the oh-so-polite wording. Draco would find the repercussions of this strange conduct far worse than inconvenient, of that he was certain.

There was nothing else to do but confront him, and he decided to leave for Wiltshire tomorrow. Until then, he supposed he should owl Redmund personally to get to the bottom of this.

He became aware that Flitwick was eyeing him with some displeasure, until he realized he was still holding the other man's newspaper. With a muttered apology, he took a final disbelieving look before handing it back to his silent colleague.

* * *

_Como é difícil acordar calado_  
Se na calada da noite eu me dano  
  
How hard it is to wake up silent  
If in silence of the night, I damn myself.  
Calice - Gilberto Gil/Chico Buarque (Portuguese lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

By the end of the first day after Draco had spoken his last words, he'd got himself so worked up with stress that he had no urge to eat dinner. Sully wasn't about to let him avoid it, though.

"Master Draco is needing to sit at his table," she said in a plaintive wail. "Master is going to be starving if he is not eating."

He humored her, and tried not to gag when she brought out an enormous supper that he spent the next half hour rearranging on his plate.

On the second day, Severus paid him an awkward visit.

"Redmund had nothing to offer that could explain your latest whim, " he told Draco curtly. Sully was hovering on the edge of the room, and Draco rested his hand lightly on the tea table. In an instant, she was off to fetch refreshments.

Severus watched her disappear without comment. "Once again, you've become the main topic of gossip in the _Daily Prophet_. The latest edition tells us that a beautiful and mysterious witch has broken your heart, and that you refuse to speak until she returns to profess her undying love." He frowned and looked at Draco pointedly. "So much for journalistic accuracy."

Sully was pouring out tea with an anxious eye on their guest. Severus made her nervous at the best of times; she looked especially edgy today as she assessed his irritation. In her current state of overprotective worry, it was a wonder the tea hadn't been spilled everywhere.

Watching her closely, Severus asked her, "So, Sully, do you happen to know why your master refuses to speak?"

She looked at him meekly. "No, sir. He is not telling Sully."

"No. I'm not surprised. He is not telling Severus, either. He is not telling another bloody soul what the hell he's about."

She frowned, looked as if she was about to say something, hesitated, and finally spoke. "Mr. Snape is needing to be kind to Master Draco," she said, to the surprise of both men. "He is trying very hard so that he is not talking. You should be knowing he is being very sad about it. Mr. Snape should not be making Master Draco sadder."

Draco wouldn't look at Severus after her declaration.

By the end of the fifth day, Draco's tongue was almost raw from biting down on it so often. It didn't start healing until the fifteenth day.

He surprised himself at the end of the nineteenth day when he realized he'd spent his first untroubled day in weeks. His forced silence was leading him into a period of introspective thought and calm acceptance, which he hadn't expected at all.

At the beginning of the fourth week, he felt confident enough - or desperate enough - for human company, and knocked on Dean's door.

"Oh, my god. Draco. Come in. It's good to see you." The door was flung open in welcome, and Dean ushered him inside with enthusiasm. "How've you been?"

Silence, then, "Oh, shit. Sorry."

Draco smiled, trying not to feel as awkward as Dean looked.

Dean let out a short breath and tossed his dreadlocks in a nervous gesture. "Look, I might as well tell you up front that I'll probably make a hash of the conversation until I get used to you. Don't be offended."

How on earth was he supposed to reassure his host? Maybe this was too much to expect, and coming here had been a mistake. It would be horribly rude to turn tail and disappear after a mere thirty seconds, though. He'd have to stick it out.

After ten minutes, he wondered why he hadn't come sooner. Even Dean's atrocious coffee, bitter as always, tasted good to him today.

"I finished the last drawing I was doing of you, Draco. Come see."

Once they were in the studio, Dean seemed to lose the last of his tension. With a mischievous grin, he pulled out a pencilled sketch and slid it across the drafting table, watching Draco with poorly concealed anticipation.

Once he saw the sketch, he knew why: Dean had skillfully drawn him surrounded by dozens of puppies and kittens. For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to dissolve in laughter. It felt wonderful.

Dean wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand as they both calmed down. "Take it. It's yours. Draco #7."

Draco reached out and took it from the table, careful not to acknowledge the gift.

"Well. Can I inspire you to work on Draco #8?"

Draco didn't even hesitate, but moved to sit in the soft light of the now-familiar lamp. Sitting for Dean was something he thought he could easily manage without worrying.

By the fifth week, he was once again a near-daily visitor to Dean's studio.

Potter and Granger stopped by to see Dean near the end of the seventh week when Draco was posing in the studio. They didn't bother to hide their surprise at finding him there. Draco was secretly relieved that by maintaining his pose for Dean, he could affect an indifference he didn't feel. He managed to sneak a good look at Potter, though. He looked solemn and tired.

Draco knew his silence was no secret to anyone by this time, and Potter addressed him as though it was a perfectly ordinary thing for wizards to clam up without provocation. Like nothing had changed at all.

"Dean's lucky to have you as a model, Malfoy," he said. Draco was willing his skin, which reddened so easily when he was embarrassed, not to react, with limited success. Potter was peering in his nearsighted way at Dean's sketch. "It's going to be nice."

"How can you tell?" Dean asked. "I've barely started."

Granger made up for Potter's complacency with her obvious uneasiness. "You're making them nervous, Harry," she said, and Draco was irritated by her presumption.

"No, it's fine," Dean said. "Listen though, if you wouldn't mind giving us about ten minutes, we can take a break. Would you like to make us a pot of coffee?"

"Make it tea and I'll do it," Granger said, and Dean nodded. "Would you like tea or coffee, Malfoy?"

It took her longer than Draco thought it would for her to react to her own gaffe. "Oh. Oh, hell. I didn't mean-"

Dean answered. "Don't worry, Hermione. I do it all the time and he hasn't smacked me yet. Make both, then he can have whatever he likes."

At the end of ten minutes, Draco headed for the kitchen while Dean finished shading his sketch, when he overheard Granger mention his name. He stopped to eavesdrop.

"...books in the library at Malfoy Manor. Probably locked behind a million Dark spells, so no one can get at them."

At the word _books_ , his heart started racing. Oh, fuck.

"Not that I'm going to bother asking him if I can look through them. I wouldn't get an answer."

"That seems to bother you a lot, Hermione," Potter told her.

"Not _bother_. I mean, I just find it odd, don't you?"

"I hadn't given it much thought. He must have his reasons. Just because we don't know them doesn't make it scary."

She made a noise of irritation, and Draco could clearly imagine the self-important expression that went with it.

"I never like things I can't explain."

Potter laughed. "There are so many things in life I can't explain that I can't be arsed to worry about them all."

Draco heard Dean come in and shut the studio door behind him. The sound apparently carried into the kitchen, because the conversation stopped. Dean came up and slung a friendly arm around him.

"Come on, Draco. Maybe Hermione makes better coffee than I do. For your sake, I hope so."

* * *

**Chapter 6**

_If I only had words, I would say all the beautiful things that I see..._  
Dindi - Jobim/Oliveira

. . . . . . . .

"And are you the artist, then?" Dean heard for the dozenth time that afternoon, and he tried not to grimace. Notwithstanding that his self-portrait embellished the leaflet that this clueless twit was curling into a misshapen cone in his rough hands. Or that a photo of him, featured prominently at the entrance, accompanied a brief, partially contrived biography that conveniently glossed over seven years of his life. Or even that he was the only black man in sight. He bit back the response he wanted to make - _No, I'm the artist's evil twin_ \- and forced his features into a more cordial demeanor and his voice into benign, impotent passivity, saying "Yes, that would be me. Dean Thomas. Thank you for coming."

That seemed to exhaust any conversational topics at hand. The visitor tweaked away his self-congratulatory look at having actually spoken to the honoree. Dean had to allow that most of the thin crowd had studiously avoided any eye contact with him that would require performing the ritual of speaking to him. He was trying hard not to come off as looming - hard to do with his extra height - or exotic - again, difficult with his shoulder length dreadlocks. If he was going to be chained to many more of these affairs, he decided he should switch to a look that was more _appreciative-charity-case-graduate-of-Oxbridge._

On the whole, he had to admit, he was honored. He was flattered. He was everything a budding artist needed to be at his first art gallery show. And all of the things that artist didn't need to be but was anyway - nervous, expectant, irritated, overly hopeful, wary.

He eyed a lone patron who'd so far stayed longer than the minimum time required of any stray friends of the gallery owner. He allowed himself to pretend for a entertaining minute that the fortyish, balding man strolling slowly around the too-bright room, hands stuffed negligently in his trousers, was an incognito critic for _ArtForum_. But the man's careful attention to the modest buffet, where he focused on protein over carbs and ensured that the wine glass he'd hefted was the fullest of all those on display - well, Dean recognized the behavior as that of a fellow artist.

He sneaked a look at his watch - two more hours.

In his discomfort, he found himself gravitating, not for the first or even the fifth time, to Anne, the gallery manager.

"Doing all right?" She smiled at him encouragingly.

"Yeah. Fine." Like the visitors, he felt awkward, even though they were on the same team.

Just then, to his relief, the heavy glass door swung open to admit several friendly, and at this point most welcome, faces. Hermione led the way through, shrugging back her heavy coat with one smooth gesture. Slipping in behind her were Seamus tugging affectionately at his girlfriend Lydia, followed, to his surprise, by Harry. They transferred cold outdoor air along with them as they headed over, undoing coats, gloves, and scarves as they negotiated through the over-warm gallery.

"Oi, Dean," crowed Seamus, typically too loud for his environment, but right now Dean didn't care.

"Hey, mates, thanks for coming," and this time he meant it.

"Got anything else to drink except this bloody poncy wine?" Seamus continued, ignoring the pained expressions of the closest strangers.

"Yeah. Bloody poncy mineral water," he retorted, much more quietly but with the same tone.

Seamus pulled a face to let him know exactly what he thought of that suggestion. He commandeered wine glasses for himself and the rest of the group, pressing a glass on Dean, who almost refused but then thought better of it. Seamus then proceeded to do what he did best - enliven the party with his quick-witted banter, his laughter, and his presence. Dean felt his tension fall away with every light-hearted word, and he felt relaxed for the first time that day.

After enough time for polite greetings and small talk, he noticed, Harry drifted off alone to look at the closest of Dean's drawings. Harry was in one of his quiet moods that he remembered so well from school and especially later, during the war. He took in, for the first time, how withdrawn and tired he appeared. Harry's struggles with the curse he was under was taking its toll. There'd been no good news. He didn't need to hear that from anyone - he could see it in Harry's eyes.

"So who are these lucky sods, anyway, who get themselves drawn by the soon-to-be-massively-famous Dean Thomas?" Seamus challenged.

He took it as a cue to begin their gallery tour, although Harry had advanced far ahead. "Well, this is Danielle, my next-door-neighbor. And her cat. Cats. Her husband, Bernard." There were over a half-dozen drawings in this group.

"I'm surprised she has a husband if she has all those bloody cats," Seamus offered with a wicked smirk, and Lydia gave him a swift nudge.

"Some men actually like cats. _I_ like cats," he replied, earning him a smile from Hermione.

"Who's this one, then? Looks a bit like a tarted-up Flitwick."

"Gordon McAda. Works at the greengrocers round the corner from Ron."

"Well, I'm just jealous. Why haven't you done me up, Dean? Am I not handsome enough for you?"

"Seamus, come on, get real. You could never sit still long enough for me to draw three eyelashes of you, you bloody git." He snorted with amusement at the image of Seamus posing for him. "Even when we were at school, you were never still. I think I managed exactly one sketch of you passed out in the common room the whole time we were there."

"Well, there you go, then. Come round Saturday nights and you can start a whole series: Seamus in sweet repose."

"I think Lydia might have a different opinion on how she wants you to spend Saturday nights, you idiot."

"Thank you, Dean," Lydia responded lightly. "Nice to know at least one of you still has some sense."

"Well, then, you can do Lydia instead. Or Hermione, for that matter. How come you don't have any of the stuff you did at Hogwarts? Gods, I remember one you did of Ginny Weasley that was a knockout."

"I don't have anything from school here," Dean said simply. "It's all recent stuff."

"I guess you'd need to show off the newest - holy _fuck_ -"

All eyes turned to Seamus, then to the drawing that had engendered his sudden reaction.

"Draco Malfoy," Hermione said softly.

No one said anything more. Then Lydia, seemingly aware of the sudden shift in mood, cautiously posed the question, "So who is he?"

Seamus ignored the question, quietly challenging Dean instead. "You said these were recent."

"They are. You knew I was working with him." He slid a reassuring hand over Seamus' arm, then turned to Lydia, adding, "Draco Malfoy was a school mate of ours."

"I can see why you'd like to draw him," Lydia said, then looked dismayed at the incredulous looks she garnered from both Seamus and Hermione. "What?" Her tone was slightly defensive. "I mean, look at him. He's stunning."

"Well, he does know how to sit still for long periods, anyway," Dean quietly added.

Seamus seemed to have recovered his composure. "He's quiet, too, I'll give you that."

Dean watched the penny drop for Lydia.

"Oh. _Oh_ ," she managed. "He's the one you've been talking about, then. The one who gave up talking, isn't that it?"

Hermione shook herself from her daze. "Yes, Lydia, that's him."

"Seamus told me this Draco fellow saved his life. During the war and all. Him and Dean."

"S'right." Seamus muttered, but didn't offer to elaborate. Lydia seemed to sense something disquieting about his response and said no more.

"And he's been invited to this shindig, so you may see him in the flesh."

They continued to stare in silence at the drawings of Draco Malfoy as if they were laid out on slabs at a morgue.

Their little group had caught up to Harry, who'd settled in front of the one picture that seemed to engage everyone who'd visited that afternoon. In Dean's portfolio, it was known as Draco # 8, and he'd drawn it the week after Draco had taken his vow of silence. He'd attempted it first as a stylized sketch, then pitched that aside and restarted it in a more hyperrealistic style. Head, shoulders, and a jaunty hat. But the eyes drew everyone in, really; that intense gaze that Draco had embraced after words were lost to him. Boring into you as though he was looking into your past, or your future, or was trying to warn you, or comfort you, or somehow envelop you into himself. Dean had never before drawn any picture approaching its intensity.

Harry pulled himself from his deep contemplation of Draco's portrait. "Your work is just brilliant, Dean. You know that, don't you?"

"Thanks, Harry."

"What do I need to do, then, if I ... well, I'd like to buy this."

He was shocked into sudden stupidity. Whether from Harry's request to buy one of his pictures, or from the request to buy _this_ picture, he couldn't actually say. From the look of both Hermione and Seamus, he knew he wasn't the only one gob-smacked by Harry's determination.

"You don't have to buy anything. Don't feel obliged-"

"I don't. I like it, and I'd really like to buy it."

Seamus chuckled. "Need a little something for the old dartboard, Harry?"

Harry didn't rise to the bait, saying only, "Maybe I just want to get in on a good thing early, before Dean's so famous I can't afford him."

He suddenly felt defensive of Harry, of his honest offer to buy the very first thing from his very first gallery show. If Harry didn't want to explain his reasons - and wouldn't we all like to know those reasons, and for _this_ picture - then he shouldn't have to. He'd known that money wasn't an issue for Harry, but never pried into the exact details. So even though he had set the price for this drawing unreasonably high - he'd really not wanted to part with it - the cost wasn't an issue. In a way, he was glad for Harry to have it - then he'd always know where it was.

"Thanks, mate," he said. "I'll pass you on to Anne, and she can arrange all the pesky paperwork. If it's okay, we'd like to keep it hanging in the gallery for a bit, then she'll have it delivered to you."

The group fragmented at that point, with Harry trailing after the gallery manager, and Seamus and Lydia skipping ahead past the remainder of Draco's portraits, leaving Hermione with Dean.

"That was ... interesting," she said. She didn't seem to want to speculate further, but then, he recalled, she'd always had the best manners of any of them.

He came to a sudden decision.

"You know, Hermione," he began, "I'd love to draw you. That is, if you could spare the time."

He surprised a spark of interest in her expression, revealed before she could disguise it. "Oh, Dean. I don't know. I mean, I'm no model, not like Malfoy, you know."

But that first look encouraged him to press it. "Please. I'm not asking just to be sociable. There's a lot I could do with you" _-_ and didn't artists get away with the most outrageous statements - "And I'd love to try. Please."

"Well...."

"Please." He'd always had a fond eye for his former school mate. With time, watching from the fringes, he'd grown to value many of her qualities that had generated much common-room teasing at her expense. Over the years, he'd deliberately hung back, stifling any embryonic feelings for her, figuring that she was destined for Harry or Ron. When neither one of them followed up on their friendship, he'd been surprised. But now, he concluded, he'd waited long enough for social politeness. In the vernacular - _you snooze, you lose._

"All right." She smiled cautiously. "But no nudity. I know all about you artists."

"Deal."

"Deal." Her smile broadened.

"One thing, though," he added, with false sincerity.

"Hmm?" She was looking up at him curiously, an expression he found unexpectedly endearing.

"I really _do_ have etchings I can show you."

Her laughter was relaxed, warming Dean even more than his first sale had.

* * *

The hour had grown dangerously late for Harry to be still about, and his friends had made their farewells. Dean was back at the game of idle speculation about the faces in the room. The fifty-something with the ratty coat and bar-code combover - definitely there looking to pull an innocent undergrad. The overdressed older couple - killing time after they'd realized they were far too early for their dinner and theater date two buildings over. A couple of young students from the nearby art school, with another friend, possibly business school and at her first art show by the expression she'd had when she noticed the free wine - _check this out, guys_. Her friends had shot back knowing smirks - _believe us, we already know_.

This latest man spending an encouraging amount of time at the Draco series was promising, he speculated. Thirtyish, calf-length leather duster impeccably tailored, hair smoothed and pulled back to better expose the multitude of studs lining both ears. Dean recognized the turquoise and silver pin at his throat: Kokopelli, flute player, fertility symbol, trickster, and patron spirit of enthusiastic tourists who'd been - once - to the American Southwest. Still, possibly a good sign, if it meant he traveled and had at least a perfunctory eye for art.

Anxious anticipation grew in his stomach as he noticed that the man had freed his wallet and was sliding a business card deftly from its folds. That done, he made short work of distinguishing the artist - bright lad - and strode towards him.

"Dean Thomas?" he enquired in a distinctively American accent, but with overtones belonging to someone who'd been in the UK for a while. The man flicked his long fingers over his card and handed it towards Dean elegantly. He nodded. "Jake Knightley," the man pronounced in his firm, not unpleasant voice. "Head photographer at JayKay Studio."

"How do you do," he replied, laboring to keep any nervous anticipation in his voice to an unheard minimum.

"Impressive work, Mr. Thomas," the other man opened. "And that particular model. A friend of yours?"

"An old school mate," he replied warily. "Name's Draco Malfoy." He watched cautiously as he spoke the name. No reaction. Muggle for sure, then.

"I'm sure I'm not the first person to tell you that he's remarkably attractive. We're always looking for unusual faces. Well, no surprise to you there, I'm sure." Knightley had reverted to a fellow-artists-in-the-know sort of tone. "Any chance of meeting him here tonight?"

"He was invited," Dean said noncommitally, trying to camouflage the disappointment cascading through him. His fantasy hadn't entertained the notion that Knightley might be more interested in the model than the artist, and he had to admit it stung.

"I'd be very interested in talking to him. I could use someone like that. Beautiful. Nice hands, too, and that's not so common."

Dean wanted to tell him that there was nothing at all _common_ about Draco Malfoy. He struggled to repress the selfish jealousy threatening to engulf him. He cast his thoughts back to Draco's face as he engineered their escape from the Death Eaters, and found his black emotions receding.

Knightley, seemingly aware of his disappointment - well, if he trolled for models on a regular basis this way, he must come up against it constantly - was making a go of praising his style, technique, and mood. He deliberately avoided any further mention of the distinctive model for several minutes, but the topic was apparently too pressing for the businessman in him.

"Think he'd be interested in posing for us?"

He thought it over for a moment. His first reaction had been, "Not for a minute," but he decided that now, with Draco's changed circumstances and uncertain future, he couldn't really make that claim with any certainty.

"To tell you the truth, I'm not sure," he volunteered. "He sits for me as a friend," - until that second he'd never appreciated that fact - "So I don't know what he'd say. You'll have to ask him yourself."

"Okay."

Then he considered the bigger picture. "Well, except there's one problem. Well. He doesn't talk to anyone." He struggled to explain in the fewest words he could muster. "And I mean that literally. In a 'vow of silence' way. He stopped speaking about three months ago. I'm not sure why, exactly. He's never said. We guessed that it's some sort of religious thing, actually." He hoped that covered it in a way that a Muggle could understand.

After his initial look of surprise, Knightley grinned. "A model that doesn't bitch and complain? I'm liking him better already."

For some reason, he found the flippant remark irritating. "Well, Mr. Knightley, you've got to appreciate that it'll make any negotiations you may want to have with Draco a bit...difficult? If you see what I mean."

The other man grimaced as he absorbed the problem. "Oh. I, um. Yes. Well, how do you manage, then?"

He thought about his system of working with Draco. "I ask him to come and sit at a time and place. If he's available, he'll come. If not, he doesn't."

Knightley visibly worked through that for a moment. "That would work," he muttered, more to himself than to Dean. Looking up, he added, "I'll wait then, if it's okay, in case he shows up. Don't feel that you have to entertain me, though."

He appreciated that last comment. His demanding public, or what passed for it, had stacked up in the duration, and he was needed elsewhere to reassure them that he indeed was the gifted artist and not the evil twin.

He couldn't help but notice, however, that Knightley beelined to the gallery owner for more discussion. With surprise, he nodded back at her exuberant grin a short time later, and she trotted over to the Draco series, carrying the pale peach tags that proclaimed "Sold" in the Bernhart Fashion font that they'd argued over, and affixed them decisively beside every one. Well, except for Draco #8, of course. His mood lightened considerably, and he considered Knightley with more indulgence than before. At least, he recognized, here was a man who knew how to trade favors. Who knows - maybe Kokopelli had something to do with his changing luck.

* * *

_Words are just another violence,_  
Nothing rings as true as silence.  
Sorry - English Beat

. . . . . . . .

Remaining silent among other people was educational, to say the least.

Draco had expected his silence would provoke other people to behave oddly. He was right about that. If he was lucky, someone else began the exchange with a warning to the uninitiated. He'd watch the response play across each face - always the same bewildered expression, followed by a nervous glance, then a fierce struggle not to stare. Strangers commonly had the annoying habit of treating him as though he were deaf as well, making their remarks to everyone else but him. The few old acquaintances he came across were even more unnerved, and he watched them struggle to reconcile his past cold-blooded comments with his current silence. As though he were somehow defanged, but still unsafe.

But he'd been unprepared for how his own silence would affect him. Now that his mind wasn't racing ahead of the conversation to think up a witty aside or a pointed remark, he found himself actually listening to what was said to him. And especially noticing what was unspoken. He was fascinated by nuances of expression he'd never noticed before, the unvoiced emotions always playing out in human interactions.

Dean, for example, was a very tactile person. He liked touching things to ground himself. When he was uncertain, he would rub his fingertips together at his side. When pleased, he would smooth his hands across his forearms. He relaxed with his hands in his pockets, and emphasized conversations with little gestures and waves.

Jake Knightley also liked to use his hands a lot, but more deliberately: to control, or sometimes, to his amusement, even arouse. The photographer was a practiced operator in that respect. Used to commanding using both his voice and his touch, the photographer was at first at a loss around him. Draco knew that the other man suspected him of being some kind of religious nut, maybe even a monk. On his first day at the studio, he could see that Knightley was having serious second thoughts about the whole arrangement.

"Uh. Draco, yeah, come on in. Look, I thought you could just watch this session and see how things are done. And then...."

 _And then you'll hate it and leave, and I won't have to deal with this_ , Draco mentally finished for him. He smiled in reply.

Knightley had been hard-pressed to conceal his enthusiasm when they'd met two nights ago at Dean's gallery opening. Draco was impressed with the photographer, who had seemed to know exactly the right things to say to kindle his interest in working for him. But the next day brought contracts and lawyers and a shedload of wrangling details that were probably aggravating to Knightley in the best of circumstances. Working with Draco and his lawyer's Muggle counterparts, even with Dean acting as a capable go-between, had dampened Knightley's initial excitement.

But Draco's life after the war had become wholly monotonous, and he suspected his growing obsession with his battle against the Ministry wasn't notably constructive either. He wanted to try something new. So he determined to channel his inner Hufflepuff and satisfy Knightley with his sincerity and hard work.

"Draco, this is Levon. And yes, his mother _was_ an Elton John fan." The other model nodded at him guardedly, so he knew that Knightley had given him the warnings in advance. Or possibly it was jealousy - he would be competing with these other models, he recognized for the first time. Not that he cared.

He found the session engrossing. It was nothing like posing for Dean - this was all activity and connection, smooth motion from Levon and encouraging direction from Knightley, until they seemed to be one mind controlling a single body. They communicated with some kind of shorthand that left him scrambling to understand it, but he noticed that certain commands translated into general movements. From time to time, Knightley would utter an aside to explain what he was doing, or looking for, or imagining. Draco paid close attention. The quicker he could grasp this language, the less likely he'd look like an idiot.

"DiBartolo is our client - the Italian designer, of course. Their image is a little darker, untamed, you know, and definitely sexier," he explained as he worked. He leaned forward to unbutton the model's shirt, smoothing the dark material with competent hands. Levon looked bored. Then the camera was back in action, and abruptly he came alive again, with silky movements and intense stares.

Pity that Muggle photographs didn't move, he mused. _Witch Weekly_ would have a field day with Levon and his sensual writhing. How did Knightley even know when to capture the model's pose? He decided that the sheer number of shots Knightley took guaranteed at least some of them would be worth the effort.

By now, the shirt was almost just a suggestion, pulled off completely and twisted into a gash of color across Levon's torso. Confused - after all, didn't DiBartolo want their shirts shown off in these pictures? - he abruptly realized exactly what was being advertised. His thought was confirmed when Knightley motioned to an assistant, who unbuttoned Levon's trousers and carefully lowered the zip to a dangerous degree. Then, to his surprise, he casually fondled the model' s crotch through the thin material until the growing erection was slightly visible beneath the clothing. Levon seemed unruffled by the behavior.

"Sex sells, Draco," the photographer told him, and looked almost sheepish. Levon looked at him as though challenging him to call him to account. Was he annoyed at having to share the spotlight with an amateur? Jealous? Threatened? Draco stared back at him, intentionally blasÃ©, and the moment passed.

After a short time, Knightley asked, "Think you're ready to try it?"

He stood up and waited.

"Um. I'll take that as a yes. Marcy, can you get him in a white shirt? Black trousers...no, white, too, I think. Bare feet."

He was led away, where he was fawned over with as much care as if he'd found himself in a room full of doting house elves. Not unfamiliar, then. Well, except for the make-up, which he found strange. The hairstylist couldn't get enough of him, either, combing and fondling and never shutting up for a minute.

"Draco? What kind of nice British boy has a name like that? Hmm. You're not American, are you? They name their kids after any old thing. Cars, mostly. No way are you Italian, you're far too pale. So I'll just have to Anglicize it for you. _Dragon_."

He tried not to wince.

"Take my name - Daniel - a solid, boring, British name. Just like me. Yeah, right. God, love, you have the softest hair. I mean women would kill to have hair like this. Or kill to have you, either one. Mmm, nice."

He suppressed a small laugh. Even in the Muggle world, he noted, it wasn't uncommon for male hairdressers to be noticeably gay.

"Oh, so you can laugh? Well, good. Jake warned us that you're not the chatty type. That's okay, though. I can talk enough for both of us."

His little army escorted him back to Knightley, all seeming to take a certain pride in how they'd finished him off.

"Go on, Dragon, love, you're going to be a natural," the hairdresser urged. "Good luck."

Knightley looked over at him with obvious approval. "Good job, everyone." He turned back to Levon. "Go ahead and take a break, then, but I'd like to shoot both of you together in a bit."

Levon uncurled himself, pulling on the abused shirt as he stood, and walked off without acknowledging anyone. No one remarked on his departure.

"Okay, Draco, you've seen the drill. I'll be giving you directions; try to keep up. If you don't understand, just wait and I'll explain it better. Oh, and DiBartolo's models never smile, so think about the worst moments of your life."

Draco stepped back in surprise and shock. Knightley's careless remark abruptly dragged him from this Muggle studio, which up till now had taken him about as far away as he could get from his life, and forced him back into his recent past. Unwanted memories hit him like the Hogwarts Express. Which worst moments could he even bear to think about? His father's death or his mother's? Spying on Voldemort and the Death Eaters? The Ministry's battle for his home and fortune?

The emotion must have been strong on his face because Knightley suddenly said, "Sorry. Oh, shit. I didn't mean to be so blunt. Just don't smile. How you do that is up to you."

He plastered on a neutral expression, then moved in front of the camera. At first, he was tense and edgy, but his natural grace took over and he found himself drawn in to the rhythm and motion of Knightley's direction. Modeling was physically harder than it looked - holding unfamiliar and awkward poses, stopping and starting, keeping his mind tuned to listen for his next instruction. Levon made it look too easy, he concluded; he appreciated the other model's endurance.

The lights were hot, beating down on him, and he couldn't see clearly beyond them. He heard the voices of the staff, though, and knew they were watching him. Judging him. And for some reason, he didn't want to disappoint them.

"Levon, are you ready?" Knightley's voice came out of the glare. He heard a mumbled answer; then the other model was beside him, giving him an indifferent glance.

"Now, Draco, this is going to be trickier. You don't want your pose to be too different, but you don't want to copy him, either. Levon, maybe if you could follow Draco first, because you've got the experience." Levon nodded. "Daniel, the hair - down, you think?"

The hairdresser bustled forward. "Oh, I _do_ think." He released Levon's long, dark hair - it had been pulled back in a ponytail - combing it languidly as he offered a running commentary.

"God, love, you are beautiful. And you two together, all that lovely, lovely dark hair and that shining blond, all in white, oh my God, just too sexy for words..." He turned and gave Draco a few passes with the comb. "Oh, yes," he sighed.

He caught Levon's eye and gave him a small, sympathetic smile. Levon was momentarily taken aback, then visibly relaxed before returning it with a knowing smile of his own. Draco thought it made his face much more interesting.

They began again. The shared moment had lessened the tension, and Levon made an effort to help him by murmuring directions and short commands. Draco was caught up in all the action - stand, sit, change shirts, refresh makeup, turn, lean, touch. Everything was intensified by the lights, noise from the camera, voices, people moving. It was all new, all stimulating.

"Okay, shirts off, then. Draco, put yours over your shoulder, like a towel, you know? Levon, wrap yours around your neck. And the trousers." He heard that nervous tone in Knightley's voice again. "Um. Button and zip." He recognized he'd have to do something to dispel any quaint notions Knightley had about him if he were going to do this job properly. He wasn't a monk. Not by any stretch.

He unfastened his button and had his zip down before Levon moved. As the other model reached for his own trousers, Draco reached out to still the motion. Surprised into inaction, Levon watched him as he delicately unbuttoned and unzipped the other man's trousers. Carefully, lightly, and deliberately - keeping his eyes focused on Levon's - he massaged the gentle bulge under the dark cloth and felt the desired reaction. Levon's eyes widened, but finally he grinned in response. With his other hand, Draco rubbed himself slowly, but he was hard already from the intimate contact.

"Oh my god, bring in a fire hose," he heard the hairdresser say. "It's way too hot in here."

* * *

_I need some distraction, beautiful release, memories seep from my veins,_  
Let me be empty and weightless, and maybe I'll find some peace tonight.  
Angel - Sarah McLachlan

. . . . . . . .

Draco soon learned that the team at JayKay wasn't randomly assembled. DiBartolo Clothing tended to stick with the same models from ad to ad - building a corporate image, Knightley told him - so he saw quite a bit of Levon in the days that followed. And the crew that surrounded them was larger than the first day, too. He was slowly getting used to the intense activity of dressing and preparing him for a shoot. He even started to adjust to the make-up, although he caught himself staring at the mirror in bewilderment after each session.

Other models often joined the session, although he and Levon seemed to share a special affinity after their initial day together. Levon continued to encourage and instruct him in the sessions they shared, and more and more frequently stayed to watch during his solo shoots. Draco was intrigued by him, undeniably attracted to his smooth good looks and confidence, and he got the impression that his attraction wasn't entirely unwelcome or unreciprocated. Levon had even become accustomed to his usual silence, and had developed the amusing habit of filling in answers for him when he was in the mood for conversation. It was sweet. And contrary to common assumption, he enjoyed _sweet_ , if only for the novelty of it. Somehow, the idea had taken root that the Malfoys savored a constant diet of sexual pain. Maybe a Muggle, at least, wouldn't automatically reach for the whips and chains on the first date.

"Come out for a drink, Draco?" Levon asked him after one protracted afternoon, a few short weeks after they'd met. He then replied lightly to his own question, "I'd love to, Levon, I've been dying for you to ask me. My place or yours?"

Draco smiled at him, the amusement reaching his eyes. He hadn't exactly been dying to go out with Levon, but he'd certainly been interested. Ever since his awkward conversation with Severus about his isolation, he'd tried to make more of an effort to move on from the war. He had to admit that going out with a Muggle would be moving on from his past in a dramatic way. To be blunt, he was lonely and tired of it - most of his school friends were dead or deliberately shunned him, and, except for Dean, the Order hadn't seen fit to befriend him, either.

They finished stripping off their makeup, side-by-side, and he couldn't help sneaking surreptitious glances in Levon's direction. When they were finished, Levon reached out a welcoming hand to him. Draco smiled in his most encouraging manner, and threaded his fingers through his.

It had been a long time. Too long.

Levon smiled back at him and escorted him out the door and into the confusion of London. Draco was content to follow his lead.

A long, quiet hour later he found himself invited to Levon's flat, a lengthy tube ride away. Draco was glad for the guide, after getting thoroughly lost on his first attempt at navigating the London transportation system. Just the concept of indirect routes was foreign to him - the idea of city maps was a total mystery and not one he was likely to master any time soon. Frankly, the confusion and crowds of Muggle London intimidated him. He avoided it when he could, and was content to let Sully handle running his household and dealing with the outside world.

One last street and they were at the door of a nondescript brick building. Levon was barely concealing his excitement. Draco felt it, too.

"Still interested?" he whispered, and Draco smiled.

Levon flicked lights on in his flat and waited eagerly for Draco's reaction. It was always the same - people wanted you to like their home and were insecure until they thought you did. Fortunately, Levon had never seen Malfoy Manor - those that had were often overanxious when Draco visited them, although Levon had nothing to worry about. He was curious about other people's homes, no matter how humble. Well, he recalled belatedly, he probably had been insufferably snobbish at times. The snotty comments he'd made to Weasley about the Burrow came to mind.

Levon's flat was stuffed full of books, from floor to ceiling, in bookcases that looked hand-made. Draco couldn't hide his surprise.

"I like to read. Actually, I was a philosophy grad." Levon laughed nervously. "No one bothered to tell me that philosophy grads don't get jobs."

He moved to one of the shelves, running his slender hand over the books. He slowly read titles, tipping his head to see them, while Levon followed every movement. His fingers carefully pulled out one book - _A Biography of John Adams._ He leafed through the pages without much concern for the words, but enjoying the tactile feel of the paper beneath his touch.

A firm hand removed the book from him and reshelved it.

"I didn't invite you here to read to you, Draco," Levon said. "I have something else in mind, and I hope you do, too." He looked at Draco appreciatively. "Or else I'm way off the mark. I hope not."

He realized that Levon was asking for reassurance. He gave him credit for even making it this far - communicating with him was no mean feat, but here he was, in his flat. Their eyes met. He moved closer and ran an inviting hand along Levon's bare arm.

Smiling, Levon took Draco's hand and led him into the modest kitchen. "Wine?" He struggled with a broken corkscrew and managed to open a bottle of Cabernet with only a few tiny remains of cork left to float in the glass. Lucius would have _Crucio_ 'd any house-elf so careless. Draco accepted the proffered glass and the lingering touch that accompanied it.

"To beauty," Levon toasted playfully. "Otherwise, I'd never have met you."

He couldn't remember whether returning a toast was permitted, so he didn't risk it. He hoped Levon wasn't offended. He wanted the evening to continue to be sociable. He wanted....

All at once, he decided that he'd had enough of playing the passive innocent. Setting down his glass, he moved closer to Levon, slipping gracefully into his arms, and lifted his hands to the other man's face to stroke his jaw with pale fingers.

Levon inhaled sharply and leaned into his provocative touch. "Oh, god, Draco," he murmured, and buried his face in Draco's hair. Draco combed his fingers through Levon's dark ponytail, tugging out the band that held it and sending the dark locks spilling over his hands in a sensuous cascade.

Levon moaned softly into his ear, then turned and ran his tongue slowly across his neck, up over his chin, and finally connected with lips and tongue and teeth. It was warm, hot, smooth, wet, intense, burning, everything he needed and wanted in that instant.

Levon wasn't slowing down for anything. "God, I want you..." he murmured. "I want your mouth. I want your cock. I want it all, Draco. Would you let me have it?"

He would. He pressed against the other man, feeling his erection scorching against unwanted clothing, and tugged at the confining trousers getting in the way.

"Wait. Hang on," panted Levon. He pulled away and began shedding shirt and belt and shoes frantically, while Draco did the same. There would be no drawn-out seductions, he sensed; only the intensity of immediate desire and need. And he was enthusiastically headed in the same direction. Any drawn-out foreplay had already happened in the studio, both of them carefully watching and planning for this all afternoon.

Naked and freed, he took a deliberate pause to drink in the beauty of his partner. He'd never been with anyone so seductively attractive, and he would be damned if he failed to appreciate it. They paused together, breathless, obvious in their arousal, then plunged back into feeding their hunger.

No time for bedrooms. They sank down together on the sofa, and it was enough. He felt warm, smooth fingers curling around his cock, and nearly came right then from the long-awaited touch. He thrust himself wildly against hip, against thigh, losing his concentration before regaining it. Levon was so close, closer than the air around him, and Draco's hand grasped for him, slick and hard and ready under his fingers. He heard the other man's gasps, incoherent cries to Draco and to God or to both of them together, and he pressed his mouth again to the lips reaching for him and tasting him in unspoken delight. He felt the sudden change in rhythm of the body pressed against him, then Levon was spurting into his hand, against his skin, wet and warm, and Draco focused everything on that moment and held him there.

Levon's hand faltered for a moment, lost in his own orgasm, then softly resumed its grip and stroke, pulling Draco along into a place where only sensation held sway, where he was lost in feeling. His mind was thrumming a cadence, _yes yes yes yes_ , and he opened his eyes suddenly to find Levon's boring into him, startled for a moment that these eyes were unexpectedly brown, and then he was lost again, edging and falling into his own orgasm with what felt like his last breath.

Levon was laughing softly in his ear. "Oh, yes, Draco. Everything I thought you would be." He waited a respectable amount of time, then answered for him plainly, "And you're everything I wanted, too, Levon."

He could only smile his agreement.

But already, beyond the warming fire of this sexual release, Draco could sense the wolves of loneliness again begin to circle, their eyes hungrily watching him.

* * *

Severus had to admit to some curiosity about the upcoming visit of Hermione Granger this evening. Her owl had been brief and taciturn, which he supposed was her way of controlling the situation to her advantage. It was a worthless trick. He'd already surmised that her interest was Draco Malfoy; her job with the Ministry almost ensured it. His sources at the Ministry had let slip that Granger's group had fought a nasty little turf war last month over something to do with him. He'd been tempted to owl back an equally terse reply - _I know no more than you do_ \- but he'd resisted. He'd fought beside her during the war; he owed her some courtesy now.

A sharp rap alerted him to her arrival. He opened the door silently, and she offered a short greeting and accepted his offer of tea. He'd expected her to be concealing a residual nervousness, but in this he was disappointed. She was all business.

He allowed her to initiate the conversation - they were here at her request, after all.

"Professor Snape, I think you have some idea of why I've come. The Ministry are interested in the reason Draco Malfoy has taken a vow of silence."

He kept his voice slightly softer than he usually did - Granger didn't make policy decisions at the Ministry, and it wouldn't do to blame her for her orders. Still, he was annoyed at the faceless someone at Ministry HQ for their nosiness.

"Is there a reason for their interest?"

She nodded. "I'll tell you everything I know about it - but if you wouldn't mind, could you answer my questions first?"

His curiosity was piqued. "All right."

"The most obvious question is: do you know why he's doing it?"

He wished he had an obvious answer. "Miss Granger, even if Draco had confided his reason to me I would not tell you, no matter how much the Ministry threatened. But the truth of the matter is that he told me nothing about it. I read about his action in the _Daily Prophet,_ as did the rest of the wizarding world."

Her face fell. "I see. I thought if there was one person he'd confide in, it would be you."

"You flatter me. But he did not."

She sighed. "Then I don't think anyone else knows the reason behind it. If he didn't tell you anything, it's a good bet he didn't tell anyone."

That was likely, he thought, but said, "Perhaps his solicitors have more information." He knew they didn't.

She frowned. "No, they were as mystified as everyone else. And quite put out, too, what with preparing for his trial. They led me to believe, in quite strong language, that he isn't helping his cause at all by his behavior, and their preparations are suffering."

He could well imagine Redmund's irritation, not something he'd like to face himself. "I'm afraid I'm not of any help, and so your visit has been in vain."

"Well, I'd hoped that I could also tap into your expertise in magic." He allowed her the opportunity for self-serving apple-polishing. "Perhaps you're aware of a spell or h-" She stopped herself, but he was certain she'd nearly said hex. "A spell that uses enforced silence as a component."

"Again I'm afraid I have to disappoint you, Miss Granger. No spell in my recollection uses a vow of silence." He looked at her carefully before adding, "In fact, a vow of silence is more commonly associated with some kind of religious undertaking."

She smiled. "No surprise, but we've seen no sign of anything like that. In fact, Malfoy's found himself a new job that's a bit removed from any religious life."

She was watching him closely to see if the news was a surprise to him. It was, but he wasn't about to let her discern that. Nor was he going to stoop to ask her what Malfoy's new career was. He merely waited, keeping her under his scrutiny until she was obliged to break the tension with the information.

"He's a fashion model. In Muggle London."

Well, that was unexpected. Not the modeling - Draco was attractive enough, he supposed, and he imagined that was a prime requirement of the occupation - but to hear of him working in the Muggle world was incredible. It would be priceless to see him functioning in that unfamiliar milieu.

"Not a particularly spiritual vocation, I agree."

"No. And anyway, he started up with it after he'd already taken the vow of silence. He met the photographer through Dean Thomas. We've concluded that the two events are unrelated."

Granger seemed to have exhausted her questions at a scant two, and her tea cup was still nearly full.

She was smoothing the edges of her robe carefully with well-manicured fingers, and he was pleased to note he'd succeeded in making her nervous after all.

"Professor Snape, I promised I'd tell you why the Ministry are interested in Malfoy's silence. I know I don't need to tell you about the need for confidentiality in what I'm going to say."

She paused long enough to allow him to nod curtly.

"Harry Potter has been hit with an unidentified curse." He listened with well-concealed interest as she described the circumstances and effect of the curse. By the time she was finished, her tea was gone, and he lifted the pot to offer her more.

"Thank you. So tell me, Professor, have you ever heard of this curse? Or even a curse that's similar?"

He had to admit he had not. Nothing even close to these peculiar manifestations of Potter's. "No. Certainly no potion would have such overreaching effects."

She looked disappointed. "The closest thing we've been able to find is some type of _Pondera_ curse - an Exchange curse controlled by another wizard who actively maintains the spell."

The pieces fell into place. "Which explains your interest in Draco."

"Yes. His vow of silence seems to have coincided with the onset of Harry's curse."

He froze. Of course the Ministry would look to Draco first. He was surprised they weren't investigating his own behavior as well; then again, they undoubtedly were.

He was damned if he would help the Ministry's latest vendetta. He sat in stony silence, determined not to offer a crumb of information if he could help it.

Granger seemed to recognize the change in his demeanor. "Professor, I know that you worked closely with him during the war. But people change. If there's a possibility that Malfoy's somehow behind Harry's curse, I hope you would help us."

He bit back his impulse to make an angry remark. "All the Ministry has at this point is conjecture and coincidence, Miss Granger. I don't choose to be a party to scurrilous slander."

She took an anxious gulp of tea. "Nor should you. It's not only Malfoy's vow that concerns us." She paused, but he didn't interrupt. "Harry can't be left alone when he's under the curse. All of us arrange to spend the evenings with him - we take turns. Except lately, Malfoy's been spending most evenings with Harry himself. He's become his main caretaker when the spell is in effect. And to tell you the truth, none of us are resisting his offer too strongly - it's not easy listening to Harry when he's like that. "

"Are you saying that Potter and Draco are friends?" He immediately regretted parting with the obvious proof of his ignorance.

"At best, friends. At worst - well, let's just say the Ministry are withholding judgment."

He sincerely doubted that. He knew exactly what the Ministry thought of Draco, because it was the same thing they'd thought of Severus Snape for most of his life. Redemption in their eyes was a temporary state, something that could be quickly revoked at the first sign of anything unexplained that called for a handy scapegoat.

"I see."

"So one last question, Professor: do you think Malfoy should be trusted?"

Granger had never outgrown her audacity; she'd merely veneered it with a very thin layer of civility.

"Yes, I do. But I find that my opinion of anything carries very little weight with the Ministry."

"But the Ministry saw fit to award you the Order of Merlin; surely that counts for something."

His smile was cold. "Perhaps you should ask Mr. Malfoy about that - I recall that he has one as well."

* * *

_Change the truth until it's worth money;_  
It's a joke but it's not that funny.  
Cheated - English Beat

. . . . . . . .

The _Daily Prophet's_ delivery owl made it to Draco's London flat a little earlier than usual, looking at him with piercing, critical eyes as if he'd stayed abed until noon, although the sun was barely up. He automatically reached for the bag of owl treats and passed her an extra in return for making her wait. The feathers against his fingers were soft and warm as he untied the paper, giving it a practiced shake to open it as he moved away from the window. He stopped cold as he read above the fold.

**_Curse cast against Boy-Who-Lived_ **

**_Spy Malfoy suspected_ **

Fuck.

He strode back to the open window and slammed it shut without even finishing the article. Any minute now, the Howlers would be arriving in a non-ending stream. He needed a bit of breakfast and a lot of coffee before he was ready to face that deluge.

It was only a matter of time before someone connected him to Potter's curse. He supposed he should be grateful he'd had the four months of peace he did.

Striding back to the sideboard, he made himself go through the motions of serving himself before finishing the story. He set the paper beside his plate and paid careful attention to buttering his toast and seasoning his eggs, adding milk to his coffee and taking a welcome sip. Done with the pretense of having a morning as usual, he returned to the article.

 _Sources tell us that Harry Potter, the wizarding world's most famous hero -_ he skipped over the superlatives that no article on the Boy Wonder was ever without _\- has been struck with an unidentified curse._

He wondered who the sources were. After the Prophet's years of abuse and accusations, followed by years of exaggeration and adulation, none of Potter's friends would even think about spilling even Potter's brand of toothpaste to any reporter.

The article continued with a litany of Potter's past woes and triumphant victories. Then the meat of it:

_Draco Malfoy, son of convicted Death Eater Lucius Malfoy (recently deceased and unmourned), has been seen lurking around the Boy-Who-Lived, whose friends are doing all they can to protect him from the nefarious former spy._

Guilt by innuendo - the _Prophet_ 's specialty. He noticed that they didn't bother to mention that he was a former spy for the Order. Nor did he have much faith in the _Prophet_ 's readers to remember that little detail.

_But the Daily Prophet has recently discovered that Malfoy began a mysterious silence at the same time as the curse began, and he refuses to speak, write, or communicate with anyone in any way._

Amazing investigative skills, he thought, considering that my lawyer posted a bloody advertisement in your paper at the time stating that very thing. Perhaps your other advertisers should be aware that you don't even read your own paper.

_Is Draco Malfoy controlling the horrible curse that afflicts hero Potter? And how is he doing it?_

Wonderful. They had just issued an open invitation to any crackpot looking for notoriety to take their best shot at him. With any luck, it would be limited to Howlers at the flat, stares and snubs and muttered obscenities in Diagon Alley, and an occasional thrown object and well-aimed spitting in public. Not just from Potter's fan club, either, although they'd be the largest contingent in the get-Malfoy crusade. Any Death Eater remnants and disaffected wannabes would believe this crap and want to get in with him to offer their services.

Fuck.

_A well-placed Ministry source who is acquainted with Harry Potter confirms that intensive research by some of the world's foremost experts is taking place on his behalf to identify and remove this terrible affliction. This Ministry official, who does not wish to be identified, is worried that the well-known kindness of the Boy-Who-Lived has allowed his enemies easy access. "Harry doesn't believe that Malfoy is a threat to him. I can't prove it, but everybody knows who he is and what he's capable of. Why his sudden interest in Harry? Why won't he talk to anyone? It's all too coincidental," the source stated._

He wondered who this mysterious source could be. Not one of Potter's friends, or the article would have played that up. Not that it mattered, really. He found it more interesting that Potter didn't seem to think he was behind it. Not yet, anyway. But how long would that last in the face of overwhelming suspicion?

The tapping at the window was becoming more insistent. He judged that about two dozen owls hovered outside already. Sighing, he waited until Sully reappeared and approached the window, opening it reluctantly. Fortunately, every Malfoy house-elf was well-versed in disarming Howlers. He was anticipating Sully getting a lot of practice today.

* * *

The owls were no more welcome at Harry's home, where they'd been flocking for most of the day. Not Howlers, of course, but sincere well wishes and messages of concern from the hundreds of witches and wizards for whom Harry was the living symbol of their victory. Dean rushed over as soon as he'd caught a glimpse of the headline that morning, and he was soon joined by Hermione, who took the day off to help handle the onslaught of owls. They knew the drill quite well after all these years of being friends with Harry.

"But who did they even find to talk to? Who told them that shit about Malfoy?" Harry asked for the dozenth time that day. Dean knew from past experience that Harry considered that kind of betrayal - to break open his privacy for the world to wallow in - a hexing offense.

A knock interrupted his attempt to answer, and he was glad for the distraction. It was Percy Weasley.

"I'd hoped to talk to you before the Daily Prophet came out with the story, Harry," Percy began, and Dean saw immediately that he was extremely agitated. "But things were busy at the Ministry this week, and -"

"It was you," Harry said, in a dangerous tone of voice. "You're the fucking ministry source."

Back at Hogwarts, Dean thought ruefully, Harry would be swinging about now, but instead he merely gripped his fists tightly to his side and glared at his increasingly uncomfortable visitor.

"Let me explain, Harry," Percy began nervously.

"Don't bother. Just leave. I don't want to hear your excuses."

He had to give Percy credit for not turning tail and Disapparating in the face of Harry's rising anger.

"Look, the Ministry are worried about you and this curse business. No one has been able to work out what it is yet - but we will, Harry, we will. Still, the fact that Malfoy's hanging around you, and not talking or anything. Well, it's suspicious at the very least."

"No one has any proof-"

"Harry, listen. We know it's Dark Magic of some kind, okay? Who else knows as much Dark Magic as the Malfoys?"

Harry folded his arms and frowned at Percy but didn't answer, and Percy took it for as much compliance as he was likely to get. He plowed ahead.

"We think he's feeding power into an Exchange Curse of some kind. You know, giving up something, like talking, and getting power in return to keep you under whatever spell he's got set up."

"I know what an Exchange Curse is, Weasley, I'm not stupid."

Dean caught Hermione's eye. She had a thoughtful expression, obviously pondering what Percy had said. He considered the likelihood of that scenario; someone who didn't know Draco would jump on this as a probable answer, but something about the whole thing wasn't coming together.

And Harry wasn't buying it either.

"No. Shit, doesn't anyone remember that Malfoy was on our side? Not just at the end, either, but all along. Dean, you tell him. He seems to have forgot."

"Well, yeah, Percy," he agreed. "He saved Seamus Finnigan and me in the early part of the war, and fought the last months with us in disguise. But the Ministry knows all that. Why the vendetta?"

"Maybe because Lucius is gone," Hermione said quietly. "They need a new Malfoy to use as a scapegoat."

He was proud of her, and he smiled his encouragement. She was momentarily flustered by his attention, but managed to return his smile.

"But he hated you in school. I mean, it's common knowledge," Percy said.

Harry frowned and shook his head. "Can't people realize that was years ago? My God, that was just schoolboy games. We've grown up. We don't punch each other's lights out over Quidditch anymore. We got over it."

Percy seemed to realize the odds were against him at the moment, and he protected himself in the way he practiced most - bureauspeak. "The Ministry think it wise to err on the side of caution," he began in his most pompous voice, which irritated Dean and probably infuriated Harry. "They sent me to explain-"

Underneath Percy's unctuous words, they heard a voice outside the door.

"Who's that?" Harry asked suspiciously, but didn't wait for an answer. He paced over to the door and threw it open, startling a man outside. It wasn't anyone Dean knew, and obviously no one Harry knew either.

"Mr. Potter," the man began, then he saw Percy and addressed his next comment to him. "He was here, Mr. Weasley, and I told him he wasn't allowed in to see Mr. Potter. He's gone now."

"Who was here?" Harry demanded. No one answered. "Who was here?" he repeated, more quietly and much more threateningly.

"Draco Malfoy, sir," the man admitted.

With a sickening feeling, Dean knew that things were about to get ugly. How ugly would depend on how fast Percy Weasley cottoned on to the danger he was in from a seemingly harmless, but actually very powerful - and now very pissed off - wizard.

Hermione knew it, too.

"Harry, calm down," she began. Harry ignored her, turning on Percy with a snarl.

"You sent him away. He came to watch over me tonight, and you sent him away like it was nothing."

Percy shrank back.

"Maybe that doesn't mean a whole lot to you, but I need him here. He's the only one who puts up with my shit every fucking night, and you treated him like it's nothing."

Dean could see that Hermione was about to object, and he clasped her wrist gently. Harry was just wound up; Dean knew he appreciated them. Hermione caught herself and nodded slightly.

"Do you think that I'm going to let the fucking Ministry run my life and say who I can and can't invite into my own home? My private home, by the way? Last I heard, I don't work for the Ministry any more."

"Harry, please, just listen-"

"No, you listen. You have ten seconds to get the fuck out of my house, and take your sodding lap dog with you before I hex you from here to the Burrow. And you can tell the fucking Ministry I don't need their help, if this is the best they can do!"

Percy didn't need to be told twice. He nodded at the beleaguered man guarding the door and they both Disapparated.

Harry let out a long sigh. "Fucking unbelievable," he said finally.

Hermione gave his arm a reassuring pat. "Sometimes, enemies aren't the biggest danger. Sometimes it's friends that do the most damage."

"Friends. Not likely." He flung himself down on his sofa and shoved his hands through his hair in disgust.

"Percy's never been a friend of Harry's," Dean told her.

Harry nodded at the show of support. "Why's Weasley jumping off on this business anyway, Hermione? I thought your group had control of this _project_." He spat out the word.

"Um. We do. Most days, anyway. Oh, c'mon, Harry, you know what office politics are like. Ministry office politics are ten times worse. Percy's trying to make a name for himself, that's all. And his boss encourages him - under the table, of course, so he doesn't have to butt heads with my boss."

Harry looked disgusted. "He'll make a name for himself, all right. On the front page of the _Prophet_ \- _Percy sodding Weasley provokes Boy-Who-Lived into cold-blooded murder_."

"Harry!" Hermione chided, but a ghost of a smile belied any real outrage.

"Things weren't bad enough, were they?" he said with a grimace. "What am I going to do?"

"I don't know," Dean answered.

Harry raised his head, looking more defeated than he had in months. "Malfoy's probably thinking I had that guard put there to keep him away. That I think he's behind this curse. But I don't. I _don't_."

He sat down next to Harry on the couch. "We'll let him know."

"How? He's not living at the Manor anymore. Do you know where he lives in London?"

He shook his head. "But you can owl him. It'll get to him here in town."

Harry was up and to his desk already. "I'd better hurry. It's almost sundown."

"We'll stay with you, Harry," Hermione reassured him.

"Absolutely," Dean echoed. "Don't worry about tonight."

"Not that I don't appreciate it. I do. Thank you," Harry said quietly. "But it seems to go better when Malfoy's here. I don't care what the Ministry thinks or what the Prophet says. I need him here."

That was the second time Harry had admitted he needed Malfoy, and Dean heard a note of desperation in Harry's insistence. He wondered what was behind it.

Harry scribbled out a rushed message, and prepared Hedwig for the delivery. They watched the snowy owl shoulder past the numerous incoming birds and take off into the dimming light. Wordlessly, they snagged the pointless messages from Harry's supporters, and sent the owls back into the sky.

"An owl isn't enough, though. I need to see him and apologize in person," Harry finally admitted. "Do you think we can find him tomorrow? Do you know where he goes?"

He still had Knightley's card somewhere - the studio would be a likely start if Harry was so insistent. "I think we can find him, yeah."

"Tomorrow, then. Thanks."

It was the last decent thing Harry said to them. The sun had set.

* * *

Draco was taking a quick break, disappearing far from the hot lights and frenetic noise of shooting. He'd spotted an empty chaise longue tucked back into a corner and eased himself into it. He longed to close his eyes for a moment and rest to make up for the sleep he didn't get last night.

He still couldn't bury everything that happened yesterday. Accused by the Ministry before breakfast, harassed all day by the _Daily Prophet_ 's steadfast readers, hiding out in his London home until dinnertime. And then, finally, to be chased off by one of Potter's minions - Potter couldn't even bother to dirty his own hands with him. "You're not welcome here," he had been bluntly told. It was both unexpected and at the same time everything he should have anticipated. As a Malfoy. Always a Malfoy, first, last, and foremost.

He heard footsteps drawing closer, and he feigned sleep - he didn't want to be bothered today.

"Do you think he's asleep?" he heard a hushed voice say. Dean Thomas. What was he doing here?

He opened his eyes, and quickly discovered that Dean wasn't alone. Potter was peering down at him with an expression that nearly took his breath away with its earnestness.

"Hello, Draco," Potter said quietly. "Hedwig came back last night with the note I tried to send you. We guessed that you weren't accepting any owls. Because of the article."

He quickly sat up, swinging his legs down until he was upright, but he felt too shaky suddenly to try to stand.

"I owled you last night to let you know right away that it wasn't me," Potter said, rushing the words in his urgency to talk. "I had nothing to do with that guard at my door. It was all Percy bloody Weasley and the Ministry. I sent them away and they won't be back, if they know what's healthy for them. If I had known-"

Potter had to stop to catch his breath. Apparently his legs weren't too steady either, Draco concluded, because he abruptly sat down beside him. "I'm sorry. I would never send you away like that. I don't believe what they're saying in the bloody _Prophet_. Anyone with half a brain would realize it's all crap, you know. Fucking reporters."

It had been a long time since he'd seen Potter in full rant mode when he wasn't under the influence of the curse. He was still taken aback by his arrival, and the gush of words and apologies made him feel as though he were caught in a strong wind - but it was good. Very good.

Potter was nowhere near wound down, either. "And we want to take you out after you're done here. To Diagon Alley, for dinner. Let everyone see that we think it's bullshit, you know? When can you leave? Will you come? Oh, shit, I know you can't answer, but I hope you know how sorry I am. I just want to make it better, you know?"

He knew. Of course he knew. Potter was the archetypal Gryffindor who wanted to make everything better for everyone else, and who was immensely unhappy when he couldn't.

But Draco was willing to let him try.

Dean broke in to Potter's monologue. "I'll talk with someone to find out Draco's schedule. I'll ask if they'll let us hang around, if we promise to stay out of the way." He retreated to the cluster of people bustling around the models.

Potter's intensity was riveting, he reflected, letting the words wash over him.

"I know you didn't curse me. I know you were on our side. I just wish everyone else would get it through their heads. And I don't know why you stopped talking, and I wish you could explain it, but that's okay."

He could almost feel Potter burning with the need to be understood, to be forgiven, and Draco inexplicably found himself wanting to give it to him. He reached out a hand, smoothing it along the other man's arm, sending as much reassurance and acceptance as he could with a single movement.

Potter responded in typical exuberant fashion by flinging his arms around him and pulling him close in a clumsy hug. "I'm sorry. People are such idiots, you know?" he muttered in his ear.

Draco tightened his grip in return, and would have chalked up the embrace to platonic male bonding - except Potter's fingers were engaged in a delicate exploration on their own, tracing along the back of his neck, threading gently into his hair, and finally stroking tentatively along the shell of his ear.

He pulled back in surprise, and Potter looked momentarily embarrassed.

"Um. I...." Whatever Potter intended to say faded, and instead he offered, "You're wearing make-up."

Draco couldn't help but laugh at the abrupt remark.

"Oh, of course. Stupid," Potter mumbled. "You're a model." Then he piped up with, "Looks good on you, though."

"Hey, Dragonboy," he heard someone call loudly over the din. "Back to work."

Potter's eyes widened. "Oh my god, they call you _Dragonboy_? And they still have all their important bits attached?"

* * *

Dean was fascinated at the difference between drawing a model and photographing one. His attention was captured by the activity, the people, the motion. He and Harry were discreetly watching the process, quietly talking to each other only when necessary. Dean took in as much as he could - the models, the assistants, the photographer, the hubbub, the noise. Harry watched Draco.

An insistent voice interrupted his study.

"I hear you two are friends of our mysterious dragon. And you, I'm told," - and he poked at Dean - "first discovered him. The artist, right?"

They both turned to see the interloper.

"I'm Daniel, one of the hairdressers." He looked pointedly at Harry. "That's someone who cuts and styles hair. I thought you might need an explanation," he added with unconcealed amusement.

Harry's hands automatically went up to smooth his messy hair.

"Oh don't bother, love. That unruly look is so fashionable these days."

He thrust out his hand. "Dean Thomas."

Harry did the same, still bewildered by the last exchange. "Harry Potter."

Daniel welcomed the introductions and greeted them as though they were the most interesting thing that had happened all afternoon.

"So tell me, darlings, which one of you is Dragon lusting after?"

Stunned at the blunt remark, Dean fumbled for an answer, but Daniel went merrily on. "Oh, don't waste my time with your pointless denials. I mean, I know our silent heartthrob is sex-on-a-stick even on a bad day, but someone's got him especially hot and bothered today. God, I wish it was me, you know? I mean, just look at him. He's never this intense, you see, like he wants to be fucked hard and repeatedly. And I know for a fact it's not because of Miss Fishnet-Stockings he's posing with. So spill."

"It's not like that," said Harry. "We're friends, is all. We went to school together. Um. Public school."

Daniel offered a smirk to rival Draco's best attempts. "Oh, _friends_. Public school friends. Ooh, midnight feasting after lights out. I'm getting the picture."

He found Daniel's outrageous statements amusing, but he could see Harry was annoyed. Daniel noticed it, too.

"Oh, shit, I can see I've put my foot in it already. Sorry, love, you don't know me yet. I'm told I take some getting used to. I'm harmless. Unfortunately."

"S'okay."

"We adore our Dragon, you know. Although no one knows a single thing about him. We just make things up to fill in our vast ignorance. And of course he never says it's not true."

"Well, he's really pretty normal," Harry said, and Dean nearly choked at the blatant lie.

Daniel wasn't buying it, either. "As normal as any horribly rich, mute queer can be, I think you meant to say."

That stopped Harry short, and he stood there, blinking in astonishment. "How did you know he was-"

"Queer?"

"Um, no. Rich."

Daniel grinned madly. "My answer's the same in both cases. I notice things."

Dean laughed, and told Daniel, "Well, he's always been rich. I don't know about the gay part, but his silence is very new. And before you ask, _no_ , we don't know what it's about. No one does. And that's about all we can tell you about Draco."

"All you _can_ tell me, or all you _intend_ to tell me?" Daniel asked petulantly. "Oh, well. No matter. That just gives me more freedom for my fantasies to take the place of any dull stories you can spout. If he's like most of the models I know, he's probably dumb as dirt, too."

"No," said Harry. "He was at the top of his house. A prefect, too. He had the highest marks of our year in, um, chemistry."

"Interesting. Let me give you a word of advice, though." He dropped his voice and leaned in closer to Harry. "You'd be wise to steer clear of Levon if you're planning on stealing away his main squeeze." He gave a discreet nod towards a dark-haired model lingering nearby, who seemed to be giving them the evil eye. Apparently Daniel wasn't the only one at the studio who noticed things.

Dean tried not to stare, but Harry was spectacularly unsuccessful at disguising his shock. Dean elbowed him into civility.

A voice called over to Daniel. "Oh, they're summoning me. The voice of the master; I must obey." He planted a kiss on Dean first, running his hands into his dreadlocks. "I've wanted to do that ever since I saw you walk in, darling," he confessed. He turned to Harry and did the same thing, petting at various strands with abandon. "You could let me do something with this," he said hopefully.

"I don't think so," Harry told him. "No one would recognize me."

"With that great sexy scar of yours? Never, love." For the second time, Dean choked back a peal of laughter.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

_Angel; angel or devil; I was thirsty and you wet my lips._  
Trip Through Your Wires - U2

. . . . . . . .

A few short days after the _Daily Prophet_ fiasco, Draco Apparated into the empty hall outside Harry's flat, a place so tucked away from Muggle eyes that there was little chance of being seen. He still felt uncomfortable Flooing directly into the flat. Although after being chased away from the door by Percy Weasley's henchman, he was seriously reconsidering his reluctance.

Tonight he was especially curious about how Harry would greet him after the unexpected visit to the studio yesterday. Had he only imagined Harry's attraction, or was there something behind his unanticipated touches that signaled - well, interest, perhaps?

And what would happen? To get right down to it, what _could_ happen? Could they ever get beyond their schoolboy antagonism? Did he want to? Did Harry?

All very good questions, he admitted. Too bad he didn't have any answers.

He tapped at the door and waited.

Harry answered almost immediately, as though he'd been waiting very close by. "Draco. Hi. Come in. You're early." Draco thought he seemed unusually skittish.

He slipped past and tossed his coat lightly on the nearest chair.

"Hey, I'm glad you showed up. I have to say, I wasn't one hundred percent sure you would, after what happened the other day and all." He watched with hidden amusement as Harry babbled nervously. "I'm glad you're here, though. Let me get you something to drink. Wine okay? And if you're hungry, just grab whatever you like out of the kitchen. You will, won't you? I mean. please do."

He followed Harry into the kitchen, where he struggled to open a bottle of what looked to be a fairly high-end wine, certainly better than he'd been offered here before. Harry took out two glasses and poured out the red wine with hands that only slightly trembled. He found the other man's nervousness somehow charming.

"Anyway, I'm glad you've accepted my apology and come tonight. Well, I'm not glad you have to be here with me while...." Harry thrust the glass at him abruptly. "Here."

He lifted his glass and gently sipped while holding him in a fixed gaze. Harry looked away after only a few seconds, apparently unable to stand the scrutiny tonight, and took a large gulp of the wine.

He wondered what he would say to Harry if he could speak. As a poor second best, he reached over and gently touched his forearm with two fingers. Startled, Harry jumped but went on as though nothing unusual had happened.

"Oh, yeah, the last time you were here you left your scarf. I think I put it on my bureau," Harry said, leading the way into his bedroom.

Draco had never seen this room before, and he hid his curiosity behind a polite veneer. The decor was simple, masculine, with clean lines and modern styling. Numerous pictures lined the walls, and he noted that they were all unmoving, Muggle shots, even though the subjects were not. He recognized one of Granger holding her kneazle, a family photo of Weasleys, a painting of his cousin Sirius Black. He wondered why Harry had forgone the more common moving photographs; then it struck him that maybe Harry brought Muggles home, here into his bedroom. Was that jealousy he suddenly felt?

Then he noticed something very familiar. It was one of Dean Thomas's drawings - of him.

Oh.

At the sight of that picture, he'd damped down his initial astonishment and plastered a neutral expression on his face, studying it as if he were a bored visitor at a museum. Dean was a good friend of Harry's; he had probably bought it as a polite gesture. It hung here in Harry's bedroom because it matched the other portraits, that was all. It meant nothing.

He thought he caught a blush on the other man's face. "Ah. It's one of Dean's best drawings, I think." There was an awkward pause, then he added, in a voice that made Draco wonder if he intended to say it at all, "Not as appealing as the original, though."

The compliment warmed as much as surprised him. He took a sip of his wine to hide his own sudden awkwardness, as he let himself think that his portrait might mean something after all.

There was a certain spot in the flat where they could watch the waning sunset, and Harry dragged two dining room chairs there and sat in one. After a moment's hesitation, Draco dropped into the seat next to him, twirling his glass thoughtfully between his long, slender fingers.

Harry seemed to be relaxing at last - from the wine or from the silence, he couldn't tell.

"The days are getting longer. Which means the curse gets postponed a little more every day. Not a lot, you know, but every bit helps, I guess." He didn't sound happy, just resigned. "But no one's any closer to finding out the curse. They know a lot of things it's _not_. But not what it is."

They sat side by side in a lengthening stillness. The sky grew faintly rosy, then as twilight took hold of the sky, creeping steadily from east to west, he found himself intent on studying the growing shadows. He waited in the darkening room, but not with any real fear - how could he be afraid of Harry and the little he could say that would hurt him? His biggest concern was to keep his mind guarded from Harry's enhanced powers of Legilimency.

"It's too fucking dark in here," he heard Harry say at last, "I don't trust you in the dark."

Draco stood up and switched on a nearby lamp, then a few others.

"So you showed up again? I'm thinking Percy had the right idea about you. He didn't trust you either. Not at all. Is he right, Malfoy?"

Silence. He looked steadily at Harry; it seemed to keep things on a more even keel than ignoring him, which usually set him off into a major tirade.

"No answer. Never a word from you. It's fucking creepy, you know that, don't you?"

Harry usually got off one good rant about his continued silence, so Draco settled in for it.

"Of course you know. It's such a perfect attention-getter, isn't it? You were always such a whore for attention in school. Everything was always about you, wasn't it?" Harry laughed bitterly. "No, don't bother answering. You stupid shit."

The curse didn't do much for a person's creativity, he thought, as he heard Harry repeat the same litany of vicious comments he'd heard before. After an hour, he wound down. Draco was relieved that he hadn't gotten too worked up. Yet.

"You know what I think? I'm thinking you're angling for a new home. You know, for later, when they take the Manor from you. And all Daddy's money. Where will that leave you, Malfoy? After all, being a rich recluse has some appeal. Being a poor recluse is fucking nowhere."

Harry had apparently grown too excited to stay seated, and he leapt up and began pacing.

"So I'm guessing you're trying to suck up to me, so I'll feel sorry enough to take you in. And sucking up is another major Malfoy talent, isn't it? You want me to be grateful to you for showing up here - _oh, Draco, he's been so good to Harry, isn't he wonderful_? And I'm thinking: _no, he's just looking out for himself_. When have you ever been any different?"

He noted with growing alarm that Harry was working himself up into intense agitation - which meant that tonight would doubtlessly be more disagreeable than most.

"The _Daily Prophet_ says you're the one who's keeping this bloody curse on me. But you know that already. It doesn't seem to bother you much. They say that this fucking mute act you've got going on is how you're doing it. And now you've chased away all my friends, and you are the only one who comes here at night. You have total control over me, don't you?"

In rage, he reached out his hand and sent his goblet flying across the room with great show, spraying wine and glass across the white wall.

"I'm sick of this, Malfoy," he screamed. "I want to know why you're here. Because I can't think of any good reason, except you want to watch me suffer. Well, I've had enough. I want you gone. So _go_. Get the fuck out of my life."

He hadn't noticed when he'd stood up to face Harry, but he watched and waited, resting himself lightly on his feet, prepared for anything.

Harry bore down on him, furious now. Draco began backing away, but that only seemed to increase Harry's fury, so he stopped. Just before Harry could grab him, he Apparated to the other side of the room.

Harry stopped, confounded by his sudden disappearance, but then he spotted his new location and charged full-tilt across the room, launching a savage kick at the coffee table that impeded him. The table upended, spewing its contents across the floor, and Harry heedlessly charged through the debris.

This time, he Apparated into the hall leading to the bedroom. It took Harry only a little longer to find him.

"Quit playing games, you bastard," Harry shrieked. "Piss off."

He had never seen Harry this upset, and he rapidly tried to work out how he could get help. The Floo was no good - he couldn't speak to connect to Dean or Hermione. He didn't dare leave Harry alone. Protection spells were out of the question. He didn't relish playing Apparation tricks all night long, but it looked like the only solution, at least until Harry wore himself out. But he'd have to move between the farthest points of the flat to try to tire him quickly.

From the hall he Apparated to the most distant corner of the kitchen. This time, Harry managed to hurl one of the chairs they'd been sunset-gazing in, and it missed him by inches. He stumbled back against the wall, but slipped on a broken chair leg. It slowed him down just enough so that Harry was able to lunge forward and catch his wrist. When he Apparated to the bedroom, he brought Harry right along with him.

Harry quickly grabbed his other wrist, holding him fast, and squeezing so tight he knew he'd have bruises there for days. That is, if Harry let him live, he realized abruptly. There were no longer any guarantees of that.

Harry was breathing heavily, panting as though he'd been running a marathon, which wasn't too far from the truth. But the shock of finally catching him had stopped Harry, at least momentarily, and they stood face to face, inches apart, frozen in the moment and eyes locked.

He tried to will calmness into Harry with his gaze, and it seemed to be working, because Harry hadn't moved. But he knew it was only a temporary reprieve. He racked his brain for another solution. Harry was watching him steadily, waiting for him to do something.

So he did the single thing he could think of - he kissed him.

It turned out to be a fairly opportune decision.

At first, as he pressed his lips against Harry's, the only response was a loosening of the too-tight grip Harry had on his wrists. For that alone, he was glad he'd acted on his sudden impulse, even though he'd risked winding Harry up even more. He felt rapid breathing against his mouth, then a gradual relaxation as Harry apparently decided to go with it after all. And once he'd decided to commit, Harry wasn't about to let Draco take charge. Instead, he took rough possession of Draco's mouth, pushing and biting and plundering until Draco was breathless himself. He felt Harry discover, then explore the erotic sensation of his tongue stud, sucking and pulling against it with barely-gentle teeth. Finally, Harry pulled away, the malicious gleam in his eye pronounced.

"Be careful what you ask for, Malfoy," Harry said fiercely. "Because you just might get it."

Draco stood his ground, staring back at Harry. Harry still held him fast by the wrists, then he used his leverage to push him back against the bed until his calves were pressed against the mattress.

"Tell me," Harry said, with a voice that was more a growl, "Is this what you want? Have you been showing up here night after night hoping I'd fuck you?"

Of course, Harry had it all wrong. He hadn't come here for sex. Harry'd been spot on with his earlier remarks; he was only trying to hang on to the Manor any way he could. If that meant helping Harry survive the curse until he could break it for good, then that's what he would do.

But it was getting hard to convince himself of his self-centered reasons for being here when he was standing so close to Harry, when he could feel the heat of him radiating against his skin, when he could smell the unique combination of sweat and scent that was Harry's own, when he could taste Harry still on his lips.

Harry seemed to sense something changing, too. He'd calmed down considerably, the wild violence had melted away, but Draco couldn't say with any assurance that he was any safer at the moment.

"Aren't you just the little slut? Look at you, practically begging me for it. But I tell you what, Malfoy. I know I'm fucked up, but I'm not a rapist. I'd never stoop so low as that. So if you want me to stop," here he grinned, "Well, you'll just have to tell me _no_. If you can."

With that, he released Draco and took a step back, leaving him free to Apparate away.

It only took him an instant to make up his mind. He closed the short distance between them, lifting his bruised hands to Harry's head, and pulled him in for another deep kiss. This time, he pressed himself close so that Harry could feel his erection pressing against his thigh.

Harry didn't hesitate. All the earlier rage he'd had for Draco had apparently transformed into a determined hunger, and he didn't hold back his unspoken demand for it to be satisfied. Draco was no more convinced now that he would survive this night, but the hidden danger that Harry channeled had become an aphrodisiac.

It was all fast and hard and rough, but he found it arousing in a way he'd never before experienced. There was such an air of unreality surrounding them - this was Harry Potter, for fuck's sake, the Golden Boy of the wizarding world, barking orders at him to crawl and suck and spread. And he did what Harry ordered: unaccountably, he found that he wanted to respond to Harry's commands, to that voice that had been a part of his life for countless years. And the words Harry spoke were abusive and harsh and obscene, but Draco wasn't listening to the words, not really. He heard only the urgency and desire and need behind them. And right here, right now, pressed skin to skin beneath Harry, being filled beyond measure, he couldn't help but suspect that he might have been waiting for this for years.

He was face down on the bed, his own hair choking him, and his fingers clawed at the sheets as he felt the pressure building, up and up. Harry was thrusting into him, his words gone to mere sounds now, Harry's hand on his cock, stroking and stroking, and in his head echoed _yes,_ and _now,_ and _Harry, ohgodyes,_ and _it's just...it's yes...yesyesyes._

And his orgasm, the tightening and quickened breath, pulled Harry down into his own, and they were falling together, he could feel it, down, down, and it was wet and hot and perfect. Harry cried out his pleasure or pain or both, and finally slumped onto him, still maintaining their intimate connection.

In the darkness, there was nothing but the feeling of release and the sounds of ragged breathing. After a while, he felt Harry withdraw and roll away, leaving him empty and aching, but he heard nothing beyond a quick cleaning spell. Harry managed to wrestle the sheets around himself, and Draco did the same. They were both asleep within minutes.

* * *

Draco woke, knowing it was still some time before dawn. He was surprisingly warm and comfortable - at some point Harry had tucked a blanket around him as he slept. In the dim light shining through the open door, he saw that Harry was awake, too, sitting up against the headboard, arms wrapped around his drawn-up legs, and his head resting on his knees. Harry was still naked, and his skin glowed in the faint light. He'd reclaimed his glasses, and the reflection of the light on the lenses hid his eyes, although Draco knew he was watching him.

He felt Harry tense as he discovered that Draco was awake, and he knew immediately that they were about to have an unsatisfactory and very one-sided conversation. He didn't want to hear any of it.

"Draco."

He turned his face to Harry. The other man was the picture of misery.

"I....I don't even know how to begin to apologize. I've been sitting here for hours wondering just what I can say to you...how I can even begin to tell you how sorry I am for what I did to you." He stopped, obviously struggling with his control.

Bloody Gryffindors. He wondered just how long Harry was going to indulge in self-flagellation over what he'd thought had turned into pretty terrific sex. It seemed Harry had forgotten that it was consensual.

"You've come here for nights on end to be with me and now I've betrayed you in the worst way possible. Oh, god, Draco, how can you just lie there and look at me so calmly after what I did? Why didn't you leave the minute you could? God, I'm so sorry."

He knew he'd have to resolve this right now if he hoped to get any more sleep tonight. He'd just have to go over the events with Harry once more, and hope he got it right this time.

He slid himself out of the warm bed, shivering slightly as the cool air hit his bare skin. He rested his hand on Harry's arm until he was certain of his full attention, then he pulled him to stand beside him. Deliberately, he moved them both into the exact positions they were in just after they'd Apparated into the bedroom, even going so far as to press his wrists back into Harry's grip. They stood face to face again, then he moved in for a repeat of their first kiss.

And he made it as convincing the second time.

Harry seemed to catch on, although at first, it was slow going.

"I think I said, 'Be careful what you ask for because you just might get it,'" Harry said quietly.

He moved backward to the bed, pulling Harry with him. He stopped, looking pointedly at Harry.

"Then I said some awful things that I really hope you don't want me to repeat."

Draco stared at him and didn't let up.

"Well, I called you a slut, I think, and some other things. And then I said I wasn't a rapist, and all you had to do was tell me no. As if you could do that. I knew you couldn't."

But Draco was repeating their dance of seduction in its entirely, and he pulled his wrists away from Harry's now tentative grasp and backed off. Again he looked at Harry intently.

"Okay, I know you could have Disapparated at his point. But you have to admit, you would have felt guilty leaving me alone under the spell. It still wasn't fair. It wasn't a real choice."

 _Oh, Harry, how much convincing do you need me to do?_ At least this part of the evening would be pleasurable to repeat.

He again moved close to Harry and kissed him hard. Naked as they both were, his renewed erection was instantly noticeable, and Harry's eyes widened in recognition as he understood that Draco intended to repeat every part of their experience. But Draco wasn't in the mood for any more misunderstanding or futile guilt. The last time, they'd fucked like Slytherins. So this time, they'd have to do it like Gryffindors.

He swiftly manipulated Harry around and underneath him on the bed, and Harry let out a surprised gasp. He abandoned fast and hard and rough and instead was everything a Gryffindor would understand. He kissed Harry for a long time, spending drawn-out minutes in gentle caresses. Harry's uncertainty melted under his persistent attack. And after countless moments spent in slow and focused attention on Harry's neck and collarbone, his nipples and chest, the soft skin inside his elbow, his fingers and his thighs, when he finally took Harry into his mouth, guiding his tongue around the head and across the slit, he could tell that Harry wasn't going to last too much longer.

The peculiar sense of unreality he'd felt before was every bit as strong this time. Harry was uttering fragmented words and phrases as he'd done before - it seemed he was a bit of a talker during sex - but this time his words matched the emotions of urgency and desire and need that drove them.

"Wait," he heard Harry mutter, and he slowly pulled away and looked at him expectantly. "I want you inside me. Like I was inside you. Please, Draco."

And how was he supposed to refuse such an appealing request? He slid himself up gracefully along Harry's body, delighting in the warm skin-on-skin touch as he moved. Harry lifted his shoulders, beginning to roll over on his stomach, but Draco stopped him, pressing him firmly back against the disheveled sheets. This was Gryffindor sex, and Gryffindors fucked face to face. Harry seemed to understand this, too, and settled back into the bed.

Hmm. Slytherin sex had made do with saliva and Harry's poor attempt at a lubricant spell, but he suspected Gryffindor sex used something a little more refined. His glance at the bedside table was answered with Harry's awkward reach. Draco pulled back and gave him enough freedom to fumble in the drawer and pull out a small jar.

He had always been a visual person, quick to respond to colors and sights and images. Watching Harry prepare himself was unexpectedly arousing, he found, and he felt his desire skyrocket at the sight of Harry's fingers massaging and then dipping into his own arse. When those warm, slick fingers finally stroked warm oil along Draco's cock, he found himself struggling to regain his last vestiges of control.

He slowly and carefully slid into Harry, staring into those amazing green eyes the whole time, listening to Harry's confused tangle of encouragements and endearments and unintelligible moans, feeling that incredible heat and tightness beginning to pull him away from this world. He reached for the hard cock that pressed against him, and with a few short strokes, he felt Harry's imminent release and heard his voice, breathy and uncontrolled, close in his ear, as Harry murmured, "Oh god, Draco, please, I want you, I want you, I want to come for you..." He shifted his focus from his own building climax and focused on Harry's, bringing him to the brink of completion with firm, drawing touches, leaning in to gently stroke the fingertips of his free hand along Harry's brow and cheek and lips. As he felt the moment of Harry's orgasm, he leaned down to capture those lips with his own for a moment, one final kiss, and pulled away on the warmth of Harry's prolonged sigh.

He had slowed down his own thrusts while Harry recovered, and he watched him grow quiet beneath his slight weight, eyes closed and a smile of unconcealed bliss on his face. He'd never seen such an expression of relaxed joy overtake Harry. Between the intimacy of the moment and the unexpected emotion behind Harry's orgasmic words, he found himself overcome, on the edge of that ethereal place.

Harry noticed when he sped up his thrusts, opening his eyes and smiling even more when he saw Draco watching him. "Come for me, Draco," he urged. "I want you to feel this as much as I do."

And Draco wasn't going to argue.

When he came, listening to Harry's voice carrying him and holding him there, and then feeling Harry's hands gentling him afterwards, he thought that maybe he could get used to Gryffindor sex. But that didn't mean he was ready to give up Slytherin sex altogether.

They rested in each other's arms, quiet now. Every so often, Harry would lean into him and bestow a soft kiss against his cooling skin, and he would respond with one of his own. He didn't want to think about any moment but the present - not their past, and definitely not the future - but he knew without thinking too hard that things had changed.

Finally, Harry said, "Thank you."

Draco stifled a laugh. That was one aspect of Gryffindor sex he hadn't anticipated.

Harry, however, noticed the sudden quiver that he'd stilled too slowly, and recognized it for what it was. Draco saw a smile creep across his face. "Not for the sex, you git. Well, okay, for the sex, but that's not what I meant. I meant thank you for letting me do this after...after the first time."

Draco knew he'd only postponed their one-sided conversation, but he no longer minded.

"I think we both know it's probably not a good idea for you to be alone with me any more when the curse is on me. After what I tried to do to you tonight...well, it's not safe. You know how sorry I am for that. But I can't control myself, and you can't call for help." Harry sighed, then added, "Still, I want to see you again. Like this."

Harry's fingers were slowly and rhythmically stroking through Draco's hair. He turned his head and captured one of Harry's fingers between his lips and kissed it. Harry sighed again.

"Things are always so complicated with us, aren't they? But when has it ever been any different? I mean, who could have imagined this?"

His hands had moved from Draco's hair and were now massaging his neck and shoulders.

"I didn't believe that you wanted me the way I wanted you. And then, after I...attacked you, I was sure you'd never want to see me again. I reckon you saw how miserable I was." Harry looked at him with renewed intensity. "And I did want you. I do want you. Ever since the night you left Hogwarts - the night we kissed in the corridor - I've wondered what this might be like."

Draco became very still. He hadn't expected any serious revelations, especially from Harry. Not like this.

Harry wrapped his fingers around Draco's and said, very softly, "So if it took a Dark curse to bring you here, I think maybe it was worth it."

He was grateful that he couldn't answer, because he had no inkling what he could say to that. For the first time in the long evening, he was suddenly afraid.

Harry, content to leave things alone at this point, drew the blankets over them both, careful to swath Draco warmly against him. He bestowed one final leisurely kiss, then fell back with a sigh and closed his eyes. Soon after, Draco heard the regular breathing that let him know that Harry was asleep.

But it was a long time before he could find the same release.

* * *

It didn't take Levon any time at all to notice the change in Draco's behavior. He confronted Draco after a long morning session together.

"It's that bloke who was here last week, isn't it? The one Daniel said you went to school with?"

Draco couldn't even tell him how sorry he was; that he'd never meant to hurt him. But he'd found too late that Levon was looking for something that Draco couldn't give him. Levon was a nice guy, certainly attentive enough, definitely fine-looking. Not someone a rational person would willingly give up.

But he wasn't Harry Potter.

He wasn't surprised that his affair with Levon had been short-lived. It went beyond any leftover childhood reluctance to consider Muggles as his equals - he'd re-evaluated and abandoned that drivel long ago.

No, it had more to do with everything he'd experienced in his short life. He'd concluded that he needed a partner he could share those things with. That pretty much limited him to other wizards. But finding one - another gay one - who could look past his name had seemed impossible. Until Harry.

He'd recognized something that night, lying beside Harry and watching him sleep. From the day he walked with Lucius at Hogwarts, his life had become unfamiliar and strange. Subconsciously, he'd ached to return to the comfort and pleasure of his childhood. With Harry, he'd felt that longing so clearly, knew what he'd been searching for, because for the first time he sensed that he might be able to satisfy it. That night, Harry had banished his wolves.

Levon folded his arms and looked at him sadly. "This is odd, you know. Having to tell myself goodbye for you. At least we're not arguing; I reckon that's a benefit."

A group of chattering colleagues walking by distracted them for a moment. "We're heading off to Little Shanghai's for lunch. Coming?" one of them asked.

"Yeah. Give me a minute; I'll catch you up," Levon replied, with a wave. He turned back to Draco. "I should tell you that something's come up. They've offered me a chance to join Elite in New York. I've been thinking about taking it for a few weeks, and I'm going to do it. There's no reason not to now."

Draco sighed and moved towards Levon, drawing him close and wrapping his arms around him in a final embrace. "Don't, Draco," Levon whispered against his lips, but neither of them tried any harder to stop their tender, bittersweet kiss.

* * *

_I've got no defense, I've got no attack,_  
I can't leave, I can't stay, and I've got no way back,  
Hard to deal with the way things have been,  
I can't lie but the truth is so extreme.  
Woman Be My Country - Johnny Clegg

. . . . . . . .

The hearing over Lucius Malfoy's estate seemed to Dean like nothing more than a continuation of the criminal trial only a year before. Countless faces were again packed into the Wizengamot council hall, and Draco was a tiny dot lost in the sea pressed against him. Only the absence of the condemned man reminded him that this was not the same trial that they'd experienced once before. But none of the sentiment behind the original trial had changed, he concluded. If anything, the craving for revenge had only grown stronger.

The Order members had again managed to secure good seats, lining up around Draco. They'd walked in _en masse_ , with Harry, of course, causing the greatest commotion. He had to admit that Harry could command authority when he needed to - and he'd pulled out all the stops today. Dressed in his most formal robes, the Order of Merlin First Class prominently displayed for all and sundry to gape at, Harry radiated power. He'd marched straight up to Malfoy, shook his hand with great show, pausing for the Prophet photographer, leant in to mutter something to him that no one heard, then sat down with as much dignity as his age permitted.

A minute later, Snape made a grand entrance all his own and repeated the ritual. His Order of Merlin gleamed as brightly on his chest as Harry's did.

Not to be outshone, the members of the Wizengamot filed in with as much authority as they could muster. He watched their faces nervously, trying to predict their leanings, to guess what kind of chance Draco stood against the ploys of the Ministry.

The head of the council, sitting as head judge in this case, called for silence. Hermione, perched next to Dean, grabbed his hand in her anxiety, and he pressed back, willing some calmness in her direction that he was far from feeling.

The representative for the Ministry was a wizened old woman named Droxa Aisengart, whom Dean had seen only once before, although he couldn't remember where or when. She performed a _sonorus_ spell so that her voice echoed imperiously throughout the room. He wondered whether he'd have felt as irritated by her had she not been working against his friend. Probably, he concluded. She had an off-putting way of talking.

Every _Prophet_ reader could have given her initial presentation of the Ministry's case against the Malfoys. Lucius Malfoy was a convicted traitor. His lands and assets were therefore subject to forfeiture. The Ministry had acted in a timely manner to prosecute their case against the Malfoy estate. The case had encountered unavoidable delays - and here she glared at Draco's lawyers in an obvious indication of who she thought responsible for those delays. Lucius' death was irrelevant.

Of course, lawyers being who they were, this all took far longer to elaborate than he would have thought possible.

Draco's lawyer was next. Again, the direction was predictable - Lucius had died with a valid will, the estate belonged to Draco Malfoy at this juncture, and any move against Lucius' interest in the estate was moot. And everyone knew that Draco was emphatically not a Death Eater or a supporter in any way, but had risked his very life to help the Ministry and the War. Unspoken but heavily implied was the chastisement at the ingratitude of said Ministry in pursuing this matter.

At the conclusion, the Ministry declined to withdraw its claims. The crowd murmured among themselves.

Next came the witness testimony. It began innocuously enough with a reading of Lucius' will. Everything to Narcissa, and in the event of her concurrent death, to Draco. This part, too, took far longer than Dean would have liked, and he tried not to fidget.

Because of the required use of Veritaserum during testimony, the goblin bankers at Gringotts refused on principle to testify, but they commonly employed wizards and witches to do it for them. The rigorous recital of the goods and properties of the Malfoy estate began. Dean was boggled by how extensive it all seemed. It was one thing to know that Draco was rich; another to hear it reeled out at length. He wondered who had requested the details. He sensed resentment building among the onlookers at the excess - and jealousy could only help the Ministry's case.

The ministry lawyer rapped out a surprising name.

"Nymphadora Tonks."

Hermione glanced at him with a worried look. "Why are they calling Aurors?" she whispered. He shrugged.

He watched Tonks down her dose of Veritaserum with aplomb. A few short minutes later, Aisengart began her questioning.

"You were part of the team of Aurors who tracked the activities of various Death Eaters?"

"Yes."

"And was one of those Death Eaters the late Lucius Malfoy?"

"Yes."

"And so you are familiar with some of the activities of Lucius Malfoy?"

"Yes. As I testified at his criminal trial."

"Tell me about one night in particular. The night of June 17th, two years ago, in a small town called Bartstow."

What followed was a horrifying description of Death Eater torture of a Muggle family. That was followed with more nights, more graphic details, all delivered in Tonks' most dispassionate voice.

"Why is she dragging all this out?" Hermione whispered to him. She looked rather pale, and he didn't blame her. He hadn't anticipated having to listen to all the gory details of Lucius's offenses again.

"Probably to show how horrible he was, to justify forfeiting everything as punishment."

Hermione huffed impatiently. "Everyone knows how horrible he was. That's not the point, though, is it?"

"You're channeling your inner Ravenclaw, Hermione. I think they're aiming for the inner Hufflepuff. You know, trying to get sympathy for the Ministry. Getting the Wizengamot to focus on Lucius and pretend Draco's not involved at all."

"It's just ugly," she insisted. He agreed, and meant to tell her so, but he was distracted by her warm breath on his cheek as she leaned close to him to mutter her objection.

The Ministry lawyer was nothing if not thorough in her ability to canvass any Auror who'd ever dealt with Lucius Malfoy. By the time Mad-Eye Moody had finished his questions, Hermione wasn't the only member of the audience who was pale and queasy.

One final witness presented the description of Lucius' meeting with the dementor and his final lucid moments before being Kissed. Dean noticed that Harry had leaned forward in his seat to press his hand on Draco's shoulder, but Draco was studying the table in front of him and remained rigid.

"Poor sod," Seamus, sitting beside him, growled angrily. "Why are they putting him through this? Nasty buggers."

He nodded.

Droxa Aisengart walked deliberately to the place where Draco sat with his solicitors. Her words were addressed to the Wizengamot, but her eyes were fixed on him. "The Ministry invites Draco Malfoy to give his testimony."

Dean and everyone seated near him immediately tensed. "Shit," he heard Ron mouth.

Draco's lawyer slowly got to his feet.

"Mr. Malfoy respectfully declines." He waited until the predicable outburst from the crowd subsided. "As many of you may know, Draco Malfoy, for reasons of his own, has taken a vow of silence, and we request that he not be compelled to break his vow, even for this critically important matter."

Apparently the Wizengamot had been briefed ahead of time, because he could see no looks of surprise from any of its members. But from the sound of things, a few of the listeners were unaware of this twist.

The head judge responded with equal formality.

"The council has been informed of Mr. Malfoy's wishes, but it is our request that he set aside his vow for a short time so that we may hear his testimony."

Draco's lawyer didn't even look at his client. "I have advised Mr. Malfoy about the wisdom of testifying on his own behalf. I invite him to stand at this moment if he has changed his mind on the matter." The room was utterly silent, but Draco showed no sign that he'd even heard the invitation.

The lawyer nodded. "As I said, he will not testify. He invokes his right to remain silent."

"Very well." Dean wondered how badly the council would take this refusal.

"However, we have many witnesses to speak on his behalf."

The judge raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Malfoy is fortunate to have people speak for him when he refuses to do so for himself." Which, Dean supposed, was as vehement a statement as he would hear, but the message was clear: the council was not impressed.

"Severus Snape, would you please step forward." He nearly laughed at the imposing way Snape strode forward, robes swirling. Snape drank his Veritaserum quickly, and began to speak.

What followed was undoubtedly the most complete public testimony ever given of the hidden record of Draco Malfoy and his activities as a spy on behalf of the Order. Dean found it fascinating. Snape was a natural storyteller, dramatic and intense. He began with Draco's fifth year, describing his clandestine training at Snape's hand, their time spent with Lucius and the Death Eaters, and Draco's sudden departure - "Of which we will hear in greater detail in a moment," the lawyer assured everyone.

At the end of his testimony, Snape got to his feet with all the pomp of royalty, and swept imperiously back to his seat.

Dean's heart skipped in anxious expectation. He heard his name called; he didn't dare look at anyone else in his nervousness. Somehow his feet found their way to the table, his hand managed not to fumble his glass, and he drank without choking. So far, so good.

"You are Dean Thomas?"

"Yes."

"And you were captured by Death Eaters on the night of September 26th, almost three years ago?"

"Yes."

"Would you describe what happened that night?"

He felt his alarm rising. He'd been anticipating more focused questions, some compassionate direction and guidance from Draco's side. Certainly not this open-ended invitation to spill his guts. Didn't they teach lawyers not to ask questions they don't already know the answers to?

But he knew that his testimony could only help Draco. Seamus had already forgiven him again; he had nothing to fear from that quarter. He wasn't proud of anything he'd done that night, but there was nothing else to do but confess it now, in front of all his friends, the _Daily Prophet_ , the Wizengamot, and the world. He managed to describe his capture and escape with a minimum of emotion on display, but that didn't mean he didn't feel the weight of every word.

Redmund asked him next about serving with Draco in his disguise as David Carmichael, and Dean dutifully recounted everything he'd seen of him during those final weeks of the war.

By the time he was finished - and it took him longer than he'd imagined- he couldn't bear to face the disappointment he knew his friends would pretend they didn't feel. He glanced at Redmund - well, he was happy at least; Draco came out smelling like a rose. Dean, on the other hand, stood exposed as a betrayer and a coward.

Blessedly, the Ministry's lawyers were content to leave him alone and had no questions for him. He slowly returned to his seat, but avoided everyone's murmured sympathy. He didn't deserve any of it.

Hermione leaned towards him, and he whispered, "Don't say it. Please."

She looked at him calmly and replied, "All right. For now." But then she slipped her hand into his and refused to let go.

Seamus was next. He could add little to Dean's story, but spent his time defending him. "I understand why he told them where I was. He put the mission first, as he should have done. I don't blame him for anything. I forgive him with all my heart. You know that, Dean."

He didn't deserve that forgiveness, not the first time or the second. But he knew that it was freely offered, and he would have been the most ungrateful wretch on the planet if he didn't take it in both hands and hold on to it for what it was worth. Seamus wanted him to let go of his guilt, and in gratitude, he would try.

Redmund, completely aware of the theater of this trial, had saved the biggest celebrity for last. Harry took his place at the table, smiled briefly at Draco, toasted him calmly, and sipped his Veritaserum.

He leaned forward to hear Redmund's questions, although the solicitor projected his voice to the farthest spectators in the room.

"Mr. Potter, you of all people have the largest complaint against Lucius Malfoy for what he did to you during the war."

"Perhaps," Harry answered.

"So tell us, do you support the claims of the Ministry against the estate of Lucius Malfoy?"

"No, I don't. I think it's wrong."

"And why do you think it's inadvisable?"

"Because Lucius Malfoy is dead. The Ministry can't punish him, as much as they like to think they can. He's beyond even their reach. At least I'd like to think so." He directed a small smile at the Ministry's lawyer, who ignored him. There was a smattering of laughter from the crowd.

Harry continued as if he hadn't said anything unreasonable. "It's obvious the only one being punished here is Draco. And we've just heard that he was a hero, and worked against his father at great personal risk. For the Ministry to go after his inheritance is just plain wrong. He's being punished for being a Malfoy. No other reason."

Dean couldn't have said it better.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter."

He didn't like the predatory look on Aisengart's face as she stood to address the court. "I have a few questions for Mr. Potter."

"Very well."

"How long have you known Mr. Malfoy?"

"Since we were eleven. We met at Hogwarts."

"And you've been friends all this time?"

Harry smiled. "No. Our friendship is more recent."

"Recent reports state that you are under a Dark Spell. Is that the case?"

Harry's smile vanished at the abrupt change of topic. "I don't know if it's Dark. But there is a curse of some kind on me, yes."

"Can you describe this curse to us?"

Harry could and did. Dean was sickened by the eager looks on everyone's face as they fed on the misfortune and drank in the details of his friend's affliction. _Vultures_.

"And no one knows who cast this curse on you?"

"No."

"Do you have any suspicions?"

"No," Harry snapped, and looked angry.

"But there have been accusations?

"There are always accusations. None that I believe."

"Were accusations made against Mr. Malfoy?"

"The _Daily Prophet_ has printed something, yes."

"Did they also mention that Mr. Malfoy's sudden silence correlated with the beginning of this curse?"

Harry held off answering as long as he could. "They mentioned it. I don't believe it."

"So you've said." She seemed to be taking particular delight in the glares Harry was shooting at her. "Mr. Malfoy is your friend. You want to protect him, don't you?"

"Protect isn't the correct word. I want the truth to be heard. Draco didn't cast this curse on me."

She smiled benevolently, and Dean was suddenly reminded of Dolores Umbridge. "Can you prove that he did not?"

"No," he admitted. "But I can't prove you didn't cast it either. So maybe you should be answering these accusations, too."

Dean quietly cheered the way Harry was trying to turn the tables.

But the lawyer wasn't fazed. "I assure you, Mr. Potter, I did not cast any Dark curse against you. Furthermore, I am willing to state this under Veritaserum, which is more than Mr. Malfoy is willing to do."

Dean heard Ron mutter something obscene under his breath.

"But I gather that you are willing to vouch for him, and you expect that this should carry the same weight. As the testimony of an objective witness. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"And perhaps it shall. Provided you are an objective witness, that is."

The question seemed to bother Harry. It bothered Dean, too.

"I'm under Veritaserum. What else do you want?"

"I'm curious, actually, as to what you hope to gain by your admirable defense of Mr. Malfoy."

Harry looked puzzled. "I don't know what you mean."

"What is your relationship with Mr. Malfoy?"

"I told you. We're friends."

"Is Mr. Malfoy, perhaps, your boyfriend?"

The hissing in the room grew suddenly louder, then stopped as people strained to hear the answer.

"No. I wouldn't say that."

"Would he?"

Harry's smile projected more threat than pleasure. "Well, you'd have to ask him. I can't answer for anyone but myself, of course."

"Of course. Let's be more specific, then. Have you and Mr. Malfoy participated in sexual relations with each other in, oh, let's say the past week?"

The silence in the room was overwhelming. Harry appeared shocked - hell, most of the Wizengamot and certainly everyone in the crowd was shocked. For the first time, Dean was utterly ashamed of the Ministry and horrified at the lengths they were prepared to go to claim their victory.

Harry ground out an answer. "Yes. I don't see what this has to do with the Ministry's case."

Her answer was drowned out by the rush of astonished hissing as neighbor confirmed with neighbor that _yes_ , it was true, Harry Potter just admitted to having sex with Draco Malfoy. The _Daily Prophet_ reporter looked as though she'd died and gone to heaven.

"Did you know that, Dean?" Seamus whispered.

"No. But it doesn't bother me," he shot back. "It bothers me a lot more that the Ministry just outed Harry to get their hands on Malfoy's money."

"Yeah," Seamus agreed. "You think they were following Malfoy? They must have been."

The lawyer wasn't finished. "I'm merely suggesting that maybe you have a hidden reason to defend Mr. Malfoy so wholeheartedly. The Wizengamot deserves to know all the facts in this case."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Then maybe they should know that I'm not ashamed of anything I've done with Draco. He's a war hero, and he's done nothing wrong except get in the way of the Ministry's bid to steal his inheritance. Maybe the Wizengamot should be told that the Ministry feels it's their right to ruin Draco Malfoy because he's gay."

"Mr. Potter, this matter concerns the actions of Lucius Malfoy, not his son."

"I don't think anyone here believes that any more. I never expected the Ministry to stoop so low. You had to have put a bug in my bedroom to spy on us. So tell me, did you get what you wanted?" Dean recognized the zealous gleam in Harry's eye; the one that he usually noticed just before all hell broke loose. "The Boy-Who-Lived is shagging Draco Malfoy. And will continue to do so, by the way, if he's not so pissed off at me after I just outed him so dramatically to the Wizengamot." He looked at Draco with an apologetic smile and spoke directly to him. "I'm sorry, Draco. I don't think either one of us could have predicted this, but still...."

Dean - along with everyone else in the room - watched Draco send a faint smile back to Harry. His own admission of betrayal was clearly destined to become a buried paragraph in the far more sensational story of Harry and Draco's affair.

Harry looked at both lawyers without a trace of regret. "Am I done? May I step down?"

He didn't even wait for their answer before bolting back to his seat.

* * *

The Wizengamot had solemnly retreated to their chambers to deliberate. Draco's lawyers had shooed Draco and his supporters out of the council room, through the gauntlet of shouting reporters, and into a private conference room.

Dean collapsed gratefully into a chair, tucked out of the way of most of the commotion. Draco sat quietly, seemingly void of emotion, while Harry had enough wild energy for three wizards. He and Snape were going at it at full volume, accomplishing precisely nothing.

"The only person I need to apologize to is Draco," Harry snapped at his former professor. He turned to Malfoy and spoke to him directly. "I'm sorry I made such a hash of things. I had no idea they were going to ask anything about...well, about us. Hell, we've only been an _us_ for a couple of days." He turned to Malfoy's lawyer. "What kind of damage do you think I did?"

Redmund answered, with the restraint of his profession weighing every word. "It's hard to say, Mr. Potter. On one hand, the Wizengamot is a conservative group at the helm of a conservative society. But on the other hand," he hesitated, "it is _you_ we are talking about. They've shown a recent tendency, shall we say, to forgive you your peccadillos."

Harry looked outraged but managed to keep his voice level. "I'm not ashamed."

Redmund continued as if Harry hadn't interrupted. "And bear in mind, your admission, while newsworthy to a certain audience, has nothing to do with the validity of Mr. Malfoy's case. I think most members of the Wizengamot are prudent enough to overlook any regard between the two of you, no matter how much they might disapprove."

Snape spoke up. "Then you think nothing's really changed in the case." He looked as though he was loath to forgive Potter for his testimony, which Dean thought wasn't far from the truth.

"Probably not. But we're still left to consider just how much the Ministry needs this case to set a precedent of appropriate punishment for Death Eaters. This case is only the first, although the most prominent, of the Ministry's moves to appropriate the estates of those they consider to be traitors."

"Then it's all just politics," Harry spat out.

Redmund looked surprised. "Of course it is, Mr. Potter. I thought you understood that."

Seamus had maneuvered himself over to Dean's corner of the room. "You okay, mate?" he asked, and pulled up a chair next to his friend.

"Yeah. I guess. I think the Veritaserum is still kicking around."

Seamus' smile broadened. "Aye, Dean, maybe you shouldn't have told me that. Let's see, how can I turn this to my advantage? I could ask if you've been shagging Malfoy, too - or Harry for that matter - but I really don't want to know. "

"Watch yourself, Seamus. I hear payback can be a bitch." He paused deliberately, then added, "And the answer is no. To both."

Seamus laughed. "How long do you think they'll be? Shit, I hate waiting."

"No idea. I don't even know if a long wait is meant to be good or bad."

"Malfoy looks like hell, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "I can't imagine what he's feeling right now. Bad enough they're going after his home and all his money, but then this thing with Harry comes out, too."

"Bit of a dust-up, I'll say. The _Prophet_ will have to put out a special edition. And then get a whole flock of very strong owls to deliver it. Anyone who knew them at school is sure to have a heart attack when they read the headlines tomorrow."

Seamus looked as though he wanted to tell him something else, but he didn't.

"What? Go ahead, out with it."

"Well, I was just going to say that I'm glad that after all this talk about Malfoy and Harry...well, that the thing between you and me won't be the big story any more."

He thought about it for a minute, and replied, "I know. And the truth of it is that what I did to you was far worse than anything that Draco and Harry could ever have got up to."

"Don't say that. It's done and dusted." Seamus gave him a crooked smile, the one that he remembered after rough nights during the war. "C'mon Dean, we've been friends for too many years to let anything get between us. War does funny things to people. And if I remember - and I do now, thank you very much - you'd just had the crap beat out of you by a bunch of DE thugs, so maybe you weren't thinking so clearly, right?"

He nodded reluctantly, but he was gratified. For the first time, he felt convinced of Seamus' sincerity in forgiving him. Admittedly, he had needed a lot of convincing. Now, Seamus was extending a hand to him, and he took it without hesitation, pulling his friend close into an awkward hug.

"Take it easy, Dean. And for God's sake, don't get all swoony and start kissing me or we _will_ end up on the front page after all."

Hermione had walked up at that moment; she caught the last comment and laughed.

Seamus grabbed her arm and slung it around Dean quickly, to the surprise of them both. "Quick, lass, he needs an antidote of heterosexuality before things go too far."

Dean snickered, but secretly he enjoyed pressing close to Hermione for an extra moment before they untangled themselves.

"I was wondering if you'd like to go with me in search of some tea?" she asked.

He was feeling particularly dry-mouthed from the potion, so he agreed without hesitation. Seamus waved them off. "Go, go. Bring me back a cup - you know how I like it."

He followed Hermione out of the room. Fortunately, the reporters didn't notice their escape and they moved down the hall unmolested. He was glad Hermione knew the layout of the building - he briefly wondered where her office was in this maze. She led them to a little room that functioned as a refreshment center. She quickly spelled up three cups of tea while he stood back and admired her efficiency. Among other attributes.

She made no move to leave. "Nice to be out of the fish bowl. I'm in no hurry to get back, are you?"

"No."

"Seamus is a sweetheart, isn't he?" she said, abruptly changing topics.

He hoped she remembered that he was still under the effect of Veritaserum. "Yes, he is."

She leaned back against the counter and took a delicate sip of her hot tea. "Look, I know that testifying for Malfoy was tough for you today. I didn't know anything about what happened during the war between you and Seamus before this afternoon. But I think I know you. Well, at least a little. I can tell you're beating yourself up over it, and probably have been ever since it happened. And I know what that's like."

He wondered where she was headed, but because she hadn't asked him a question, he was content to just listen.

"I wanted to tell you.... Well, I was going to tell you at some point, anyway. So you wouldn't have to hear it as gossip. I'm not sure who knows this, but more people than I'm aware of, I'm sure."

He smiled at her, encouraging her and trying to make her feel comfortable.

"Well, you know that Ron and I were together for a while during the war. No big secret. I guess everybody had us already matched up together by then, anyway." She gave him a quick smile. "People being people and all."

"Or Gryffindors being Gryffindors."

"I don't know if you gave us much thought when we broke it off. But it was ugly. And all my fault." She gave a sigh and took a minute to compose herself.

"I'm sure it wasn't _all_ your fault, Hermione," he began, but she cut him off.

"You're kind to say that, but hear me out. If you ever had delusions about how noble and virtuous I am, they're about to be shattered. I'm just as human as the next guy." She looked down nervously before continuing. "Well, what happened was that I cheated on Ron. In a spectacular, major-fuck-up way, too. God, this is still hard to talk about, you know?"

He moved closer to her and touched her arm gently. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, I need to. Let me finish my sordid story. It had been a bad week all round - not that it excuses what I did, not at all. It was the week Lavender was killed, do you remember? Ron had been called away, and I hadn't seen him in over a week. And then I ran into his brother Charlie. Long story short, I ended up sleeping with him. Liquor was involved, in case you ever wondered why I no longer drink. And Ron found out. Shocking, isn't it?"

He was forced to answer her question. "Yes." He stopped, then added, "Hermione, remember that I'm still under Veritaserum. I don't mean to be blunt."

She'd apparently forgotten. "Sorry, Dean. I'll be more careful."

"S'okay."

"Then Charlie was killed not long after that, before he and Ron ever saw each other again. So Ron was mourning him at the same time he was furious with him, and any kind of reconciliation between them was gone forever. It was a horrible mess."

He said the first thing that came to mind. "I'm sorry. For all of you, actually."

Her acknowledging smile was etched with sadness. "Thanks. Not that I deserve anything. Anyway, I don't mean to make this into some kind of contest - you know, 'You think you're bad, let me tell you what a piece of work I am.' Not at all. But I wanted to let you know that I understand what it feels like to betray someone you care about."

"But you and Ron are friends now."

"Yes, we managed to salvage that much at least. And I'm thankful, don't get me wrong. But it took a long time, and we both did some growing up in a hurry. Ron forgave me, but it was hard. Hard for him and for me, both."

He didn't know what to say to that.

Hermione looked thoughtful. "Honestly, looking back at us, knowing what I know now, I believe it was probably only a matter of time before we split up. We really weren't very compatible as a couple. As friends, yes. We practically grew up together, and Ron is more like a brother to me. I didn't see it at the time."

He took a long, deliberate sip of tea. "I can understand that. Knowing both of you."

"So being together was probably short-lived. But the split could have been a lot less painful if I hadn't betrayed him so horribly."

"So we have something else in common."

Hermione smiled. "Besides art, you mean?"

"Yes."

"You know, there's another reason I wanted you to hear this story from me. I don't need any skeletons rattling around in my closet. I don't want to start out by hiding things from you. But if you can forgive me, I think - well, to be up-front, I think there may be a future. For us - if you want it." She turned her face to his and looked at him with her familiar, forthright gaze. "And I'm asking you. Deliberately. Do you want it, Dean?"

He didn't bother to hide his pleasure. "Well, in the first place, you've done nothing to need my forgiveness, Hermione. And in the second place, _yes_. I want it. In fact, I want it very much."

He was looking down on her from his near-foot advantage in height. Placing his hands on her waist, he lifted her up so that she was perched on the counter, and he could look her directly in the eye. He didn't say anything, instead pulling closer to her, feeling her quickening breath on his face as he leaned in to softly kiss her. "I want _you_ very much."

"That's all I needed to hear," she replied, and pressed herself into his tight embrace. He threaded his long fingers into her soft hair, inhaling its deep rich aroma, as their lips expressed just how much they both wanted to touch, to feel, to share their secrets.

After a while, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me how you felt before?"

Hermione laughed as she looked around the Ministry refreshment room. "Well, contrary to my image, I don't always plan everything down to the last detail. I guess I was caught up in the moment."

He grinned. "I'm not complaining, mind you."

"Me, either. I was trying to take things slow. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that. But I feel comfortable with you, Dean. I think this just might work."

He felt the strong urge to again capture her mouth with his own, and they relaxed into each other. He let his hand cup her chin, then stroked tenderly along her soft skin as though she was some unexpectedly delicate treasure.

She finally broke away with a quiet sigh. "God, it's been a weird day - good but weird. I think things just took a turn for the better. Well, for us, at least. Hope that's true for Malfoy, too."

He was thrown back into the reality of the afternoon, something that had seemed so remote a minute ago. "We'd better head back."

Hermione steadied herself on Dean's shoulders and slid off the counter with an elegant motion. "We've let Seamus' tea get cold. Do you think he'd notice if I spelled it hot again?"

"Seamus? Are you joking? You wouldn't believe the swill I've seen him drink."

* * *

After nearly two hours of waiting in a room that seemed increasingly claustrophobic, Dean was ready to scream. Most of the conversation had faded; anything spoken was whispered as though they were in church where silence reigned.

There was a sharp rap on the door and nearly everyone jumped at the unexpected sound. An unknown voice was heard through the thin door. "The Wizengamot has returned with their decision."

His heartbeat sped up and his stomach clenched. At least they'd know one way or the other in just a few minutes, he reassured himself.

They filed into the packed room silently, and resumed their seats. Eurybiades Tabernash, preparing himself to speak for the Wizengamot, unrolled an impressive looking scroll and in a loud, declarative tone, began to read. There was the expected grandiose introduction, thanking the witnesses for their testimony, and then he was at the heart of the matter.

"For services rendered to the Ministry and to the wizarding world, we award Draco Malfoy the London flat in Belgravia and a fixed income, details to be presented to his attorney. However" - at that word, Dean's heart plummeted - "we declare the estate of Lucius Malfoy forfeit to the Ministry of Magic."

An explosion of sound greeted the pronouncement, and chaos overtook the crowd that had been composed until that instant. Dean sat stunned, unable to accept what he'd heard. Over the din, he heard Harry screaming invectives heavily mixed with profanities at the Wizengamot and watched him yank off his Order of Merlin and slam it down on the table in front of him. But it was Draco he wanted to see. Redmund was gripping Draco's arm tightly, although Draco showed no signs of movement. His face was a picture of defeat; Dean had never seen anyone look so bereft, so very lost and overwhelmed.

In years to come, there were two images he carried with him of this day - the tender expression on Hermione's face just before he kissed her for the first time, and the desolation in Draco Malfoy's eyes as he heard the words stripping him of the last thing holding his life together.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

_Hard to tell or recognize a sign_  
to see me through, a warning sign.  
In a Lifetime - Clannad/Bono

. . . . . . . .

Snape couldn't avoid dwelling on the certainty that he was Apparating to Malfoy Manor for the last time. The likelihood of its next owner - a wizard with the prestige and fortune to take it off the Ministry's hands, for a tidy profit, of course - wanting to have any connection with someone with his reputation was nil. With sudden amusement, he weighed the option that a Muggle might acquire the Manor - and wouldn't that be poetic justice for Lucius Malfoy's dynasty?

Since Narcissa's death, he was the only visitor with permission to Apparate directly through the wards and into the Manor itself. He frowned, considering the possibility that Draco might have extended the privilege to his new and highly inconceivable paramour.

Draco didn't look any better than when he'd last seen him three days earlier at the trial.

"I'm not going to bother asking if you've been eating, because I can see you haven't," was the warmest greeting he could muster. "Or sleeping, I daresay."

Snape called for Draco's house-elf, because Draco didn't make a move to do it himself. The creature appeared, bowing with an ingratiating gravity.

"Master Snape, sir," she sputtered. "Sully is hoping you is here to help Master Malfoy, sir." She clapped both hands roughly over her own mouth at the admission, and he made an irritated sound.

"Has he had lunch, Sully?" The elf shook her head frantically. "Breakfast?" She repeated the motion. "Bring us something here, then. Tea, as well."

She disappeared instantly.

"Starving yourself is not the answer, Draco. You'll need your strength in the weeks to come, seeing to all the arrangements that will be necessary to effect your move from the Manor."

Draco regarded him dispassionately.

"Redmund and his associates are able to arrange most of the details, but you will need to identify what you'd like to take to your new home in London and what you wish to place in storage. Fortunately, they are empowered to sign for you on any critical documents." He narrowed his eyes at his former student. "Have I ever mentioned what an immense inconvenience your silence has become?"

He thought he saw Draco flinch slightly, and he hid his satisfied sneer. Draco shifted his attention to the tea cup that Sully had returned with, and he was fussing with cream and sugar in a failed attempt to look unconcerned. The elf hovered around him with a protective and diligent interest that Snape had never seen in such a creature, and he found it amusing.

"Sully, I don't know what Draco is going to do without you after he leaves," he told her.

Her reaction was instant and not what he expected. If her eyes widened any further, they'd pop out of her head, he feared.

"What is you saying, Master Snape? Sully is not leaving Master Malfoy."

He shrugged. "Not today. I meant when he has to leave the Manor."

"Sully is going with Master Malfoy wherever he is going." she said firmly, as if to think anything else of her would be treasonous.

Even Draco looked astonished at her remark.

"What are you saying, Sully? Aren't you bound to Malfoy Manor? I thought you were obligated to serve the master of the house."

"Then Master Snape is thinking wrong," she replied, then looked alarmed at the offhanded criticism. For a second, she looked as if she might be considering punishing herself, but apparently she decided that offending Snape didn't require physical blows in retaliation. "Sully is not serving Malfoy Manor."

He waited for her to continue and was annoyed when she didn't. "Explain what you mean."

She looked at him as though he were a first year who didn't even know how to find the Great Hall.

"Master Snape is not believing that Sully is binding herself to a house? Malfoy Manor is being made only of bricks and stone. Sully cannot serve bricks and stone. House elves is serving wizards, Master Snape."

She seemed delighted to be the one enlightening him, although it appeared that this was news to Draco as well.

"Sully is serving the Malfoy family. Master Draco Malfoy. He is being the only Malfoy, so Sully is going where he is going. Sully is surprised Master Malfoy is not telling you this before." And having uttered her views on the matter, replete with bows and obeisances, she disappeared.

He looked at Draco gravely. "Maybe because Master Malfoy didn't know that little condition himself. And maybe because Master Malfoy refuses to communicate with anyone about anything."

Draco was deliberately avoiding his eyes.

"I've been careful not to press you on that subject, Draco, because I believed that whatever reasons you have for your behavior, they were sound ones. But after hearing about your recent conduct from none other than the illustrious Boy-Who-Lived, I am beginning to have serious doubts."

He waited for Draco to look at him, but to his growing irritation, he seemed content to let the silence stretch between them and refused to look up from the devoted attention he was lavishing on his rapidly cooling tea.

"For Merlin's sake, if you're going to fidget with something, make yourself a plate of food and eat it." Draco waited long enough to reach for the sandwich tray so that he could pretend he wasn't obeying his order.

"I believe the phrase 'What were you thinking?' may be in order. Not that I anticipate an answer from you anytime soon. In fact, even were you to speak, I suspect you could give me no defensible answer. Perhaps in this matter your silence is for the best."

He was determined to gain Draco's attention, and he was satisfied that his speech had achieved it.

"Isn't it a bit late for adolescent rebellion, Draco? Although if you wanted to garner notoriety, you could have chosen no better accomplice."

Draco was struggling to hide his anger, but Snape could see it in his clenched fingers and the white skin around his tightened mouth.

"The _Daily Prophet_ has been occupied with nothing but your liaison since the trial. I can hardly wait until _Witch Weekly_ weighs in on the subject. But really, Draco. Harry Potter? I thought you had some sense. There is probably not a person on the planet who wishes you well in this."

It was enough. He held back any remarks about what Draco's parents might have thought about his indiscretion - he drew the line at that level of cruelty.

"On another matter, I believe that Lucius failed to return several books that he borrowed from me in years past. I would like to search for them in his library if you don't object."

Draco appeared grateful to drop the subject of Potter, and he stood and led the way to his father's library. He opened the door but planted himself in the hall and refused to enter.

"Thank you. I shall only be a short while."

When he stepped back into the hall with his books retrieved, Draco was no longer waiting for him. He found him once again at the far end of the sitting room perusing the small library of Muggle books kept there, his plate untouched.

He had always found the collection of Muggle classics to be an anomaly in the Malfoy household. They had been in the possession of Narcissa's father, part of a much larger collection. At his death, Lucius insisted that Narcissa claim her fair share simply because she was entitled to them. He doubted if either Narcissa or Lucius even knew which titles sat unread on his shelves. Lucius' tastes in reading material never strayed from wholly magical studies.

It wouldn't surprise him, however, to learn that Draco had read many of them.

Curiously, he found a few books tucked near his teacup that hadn't been there when he left for Lucius' library. He glanced at Draco, who was studiously avoiding his eye.

He leaned over to let his fingers run along the spines, turning them slightly to enable his closer inspection.

 _Bleak House_ by Charles Dickens. A too-obvious parallel to the fight over Draco's inheritance.

 _Emma_ by Jane Austen. The story of a woman who tried - and failed - to orchestrate her friend's life.

 _Romeo and Juliet_ by William Shakespeare. He snorted in amusement.

He refused to comment on Draco's wordless lesson. "I'll be in touch with Redmund in case I can be of any assistance in the coming weeks," he said. "And if you do not sit down and finish your meal, I will order Sully to bind you and feed it to you herself."

Draco smiled slightly at him, moved to his chair to settle there with his customary grace, picked up his sandwich, and took a deliberate bite.

"Very good. Thank you. I'll rest easier knowing that you are at least taking care of yourself." He hesitated, trying to formulate some parting words that weren't too laden with unwanted pathos. But he couldn't ignore the pain so apparent in the young man's eyes. "Draco, you've gone through so many trials in your short life. I regret that. But I know you have the strength to get through this as well."

Draco gave him a brief look of gratitude, then looked away in embarrassment.

He felt an unexpected surge of protective concern for him, and thought it best to Apparate back to Hogwarts at once before his emotions got further out of hand.

* * *

_Words as weapons, sharper than knives..._  
Devil Inside - INXS

. . . . . . . .

Hermione had a burning need to talk to Harry, but Dean finally persuaded her to wait until after their Saturday football get-together at Harry's before she buttonholed him with whatever it was. He fished into the ripped bag for the last crisp and leaned back with a sigh. "I've seen West Ham play better."

Ron snorted. "I've seen grammar school teams play better. Six - zip. Sheesh. The Hammers got hammered."

"Well, both Vaughan and Lonmire are injured, and the Black Cats have been hot this month-"

"Yeah, yeah," Seamus laughed. "You told us already, Dean."

Harry shut off the telly with a gesture of disgust. "So much for their FA cup chances."

He had to agree. "Okay, it was a strange game."

Ron nodded. "To cap off a strange week," he began, then cut himself off abruptly. Dean wasn't surprised. Ever since Harry's unexpected confession about his...activities with Draco Malfoy, conversation had dried up among them. No one wanted to be the first to open up the discussion to include that sensitive topic. Ron had muttered earlier that any scrap of information would definitely fall under the heading of Too Much Information.

Seamus, though, had never found a topic of gossip off limits in his life. "You could have knocked me over at the trial." He allowed an uncomfortable pause to grow before adding, "You know, when the Wizengamot announced they were taking the Manor and all that lovely inheritance. How's Malfoy taking it, Dean?"

At least Seamus had the manners to address the question to him and not Harry, he thought. Still....

"I couldn't tell you, Seamus. He hasn't said anything."

His friend gave him a disgusted look. "You know what I meant, you silly sod."

He relented. "Well, what do you think? You saw his face when they read the decision. He's laying low and licking his wounds. I haven't seen him. His studio rang me up, worried about him. Have you heard from him, Harry?"

Harry looked at them calmly. "Not since the trial. I wanted to visit him at the Manor, but Snape was there when I checked. Let's just say Snape didn't exactly greet me with much enthusiasm, so I put it off, and Draco's had his Floo locked up ever since."

Seamus looked surprised. "Do you think he's still at the Manor? Or has he already come to London?"

Harry shrugged. "They've given him until the end of next month to clear out. I've owled him there, and they haven't returned unread, so I suppose he's reading my post."

Ron spoke up. "Well, at least they allowed him the London home and some money. It's not like he's broke."

Dean was taken aback at first, but then realized that it was Ron's instinct to always comment on the cost of things. "Well, for Draco, it wasn't ever about the money, really. He's got his mother's inheritance, after all. He's always said that Malfoy Manor was the center of his life. After he lost everything because of the war, he thought it was all he had left. And now, it's gone."

At that moment, Hermione Flooed into the room with a minimum of dust and confusion. He stood up and greeted her warmly, then told her, "Whatever you do, don't ask how West Ham did."

She looked at him with amusement. "Advice taken, Dean. Although I have to admit, I wasn't going to ask."

Seamus snickered. "That could be seen as a major irreconcilable difference, you know. But they do say that opposites attract."

"And you should know," said Ron. "Being that your fiancee is sweet, polite, and a joy to be around."

Seamus gave him a friendly shove, knocking him off the arm of the sofa. "Quiet, you."

Harry laughed and stepped between them. "Behave, both of you," he chided. "Violence never solved anything."

'Good advice, Harry," Seamus shot back lightly. "Now that you and Malfoy have decided to stop attacking each other. Or...wait. No, you actually haven't, have you?"

An uncomfortable silence followed. Even Seamus seemed sorry to have spoken.

Hermione moved aside the snacks on the sofa and sat down next to Ron. "How's that baby doing?"

That did the trick. A beaming Ron answered, "Great. She's growing like a weed. I don't know why we even bothered finding a crib - she's never out of someone's arms."

"What did you expect?" she asked. "Girls don't run in your family. I bet your Mum's been dying to spoil a little girl ever since Ginny got too old for it."

"Oh, yeah. Big time. And Dad, too. But you know who's the worst? Fred and George. They're out to destroy any chance of her growing up to be normal." His grin let them know he wasn't too worried.

Dean could well imagine the doting uncles. Ron babbled on about his new daughter - Dean thought her name was Florissant, but no one ever called her that after her naming ceremony, instead using the far more cheery Posie. Dean had to concentrate on looking interested. Already, he could feel the gulf widening between them as fatherhood took Ron farther from their school days and his still-single friends. He let his mind drift off to thoughts of having kids of his own. He'd like that.

Talking about Posie had apparently reminded Ron of his family obligations. "Guess I'd better head home," he said. "It's getting late."

Hermione cleared her throat. "Actually, I stopped by to update you on what we've managed to work out about your curse, Harry." She looked briefly at each of them. "You all are welcome to stay and hear it, too." Ron sat back down. Seamus looked torn between his desire to beat a hasty retreat after his awkward needling and his longing to slake his insatiable curiosity, and Dean quietly snickered at his obvious ambivalence. But Seamus eventually settled in to listen.

She waited for their full attention before she began. He watched with secret amusement as Hermione adopted the lecturer's persona that was so familiar from evenings in Gryffindor's common room.

"The bad news, first, is that we haven't been able to identify the curse precisely," she began. Dean watched Harry sink back slowly in his chair. "But I think we all agree it's some kind of _Pondera_ curse."

"An Exchange curse?" Ron said. "That's what the _Daily Prophet_ thought."

Harry interrupted. "But isn't that just a circular argument? Does the Ministry think it's an Exchange curse because they saw it in the _Prophet_ , or do they have more information?"

Hermione looked pained, and Dean suspected the evidence wasn't all she'd really hoped for. "Well, we can't say for certain, but there are things that point in that direction," she admitted.

"Things like..." Harry looked at her pointedly.

She sighed. "I want you to hear me out, Harry, because I know you don't want to listen to this. You too, Dean."

He knew immediately that she was referring to Draco, and from appearances, Harry knew it, too. Harry's mouth had formed a thin, taut frown, but he was keeping any comments to himself. For the moment, anyway.

Hermione rushed ahead after inferring Harry's begrudging consent from his silence. "One fact we know is that Malfoy's muteness began quite soon after the curse began. It might have been earlier."

"No, it was definitely after," Dean said. "He came with me the night you called for help, remember? He was still talking then."

She nodded. "Yes, I remember now. So, okay, the dates don't match exactly. But it's close. Too close for the Ministry's comfort."

Harry's expression hadn't softened. "What else?"

"Well, there's your well-known rivalry from Hogwarts-don't argue with me, Harry," she hastily added, as Harry opened his mouth, presumably to offer an objection. "I'm not saying I agree. I'm just letting you know some of the things the Ministry are thinking about."

Harry frowned at her. "Would this happen to be the same Ministry that made my life miserable for years? Where Fudge and Umbridge worked? The one who sent Sirius to Azkaban without trial? That Ministry?"

Ron shifted in his seat. "But what Hermione's saying might explain why the curse is on you in the first place. We know that Malfoy hated you back then."

Ron's careful attempt to sound sympathetic failed utterly as Harry ignored him. "What else?" he growled.

Hermione looked uncomfortable for a brief moment, then shifted to an official mien. "The newest fact is what you told the Wizengamot at the trial this week. The Ministry seem to think it significant that you and Malfoy have had sex since the curse began."

Even Seamus wisely kept his mouth shut. Dean felt the urge to help Hermione through the awkward silence. "Why would they think that means anything?"

She gratefully turned her attention to him. "Well, you know there's a big component of Dark spells that encompass sex magic. So some of the researchers see a correlation between Malfoy's silence and his...ah...sexual interest in Harry. They take it for a definite connection."

Seamus had clamped his mouth shut, and Ron was turning an unattractive shade of red. Dean was starting to feel a morbid curiosity growing, coupled with profound embarrassment that Hermione was talking about the sex life of two of his friends as though there was something going on that was, well, seriously fucked up. Something that was far beyond the common reaction to the news that two guys who were widely - and at one time justly - assumed to hate each other were now shagging each other.

"They'll want to ask you questions about it on Monday, Harry," she said.

That was all it took to shatter Harry's fragile composure. " _Fuck that_. It's no one's business but mine. I'm not answering any of the Ministry's questions about who I fuck or why."

"Harry, listen," she began, sounding for all the world like Professor McGonagall at her most severe.

"No, Hermione, you listen. It's not like that. Draco didn't try to seduce me. I went after him, okay? It was my idea."

Dean knew that Hermione could argue that black was white if the mood struck her - and the mood had definitely struck her.

"Or maybe he let you think it was your idea." She held up a warning hand. "And no, I'm not asking you for details. But if he really is behind the curse, then he'd be careful to manipulate you into making the first move. It's not like he hasn't got a history of sneaky behavior."

Harry exploded. "That was years ago. Shit, Hermione, doesn't anyone remember that for the past five years he was one of the good guys? I think - yes, I'm almost certain they mentioned that in passing at the trial. Or wasn't anyone listening?"

"Harry's right," Dean said. "Draco gets blamed for everything that happens in the same city, from leftover Death Eater terrorism to the bad weather this winter. Just because he and Harry, um..."

Harry took over. "Yeah, just because we _um_ doesn't mean he's trying to hurt me. Unwillingly."

Seamus winced. 'Harry, lad, too much information."

Harry was so worked up he didn't even spare Seamus a glance. "The Ministry have been pounding this nail for weeks. And I still don't believe that he's behind the curse. I just don't."

Hermione looked at him steadily before she replied. "Are you absolutely positive? And are you willing to stake your life on that, Harry? Because some people are saying it just may come to that."

Harry didn't answer. He looked from one face to another before flopping back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh.

"Look, I don't like this direction much either," she said. "I don't know whether I believe it or not. And you're right, Malfoy's done a lot of things for the Order. But his behavior lately has been so odd, I just have to wonder what's going on with him. Don't you? Isn't it better to be cautious until we can find out more about this curse?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What's your idea of _cautious_? As if I can't guess."

Hermione shrugged. "Well, it would help if you stayed away from Malfoy for a while."

"Help who, exactly?" Harry snarled back.

"You, of course," she said, her voice rising with impatient anger. "And Malfoy, too, for that matter. Let's face it, he's got everyone talking about him, whether or not he's behind your curse. Every time he's seen with you, the suspicion gets worse."

Dean interrupted. "I think suspicion is a permanent part of Draco's life these days. Goes with the name."

"Too right," Ron added. Dean had expected more support from Ron, and was surprised when he didn't get it. Did Ron still carry his schoolboy grudge against Draco, even knowing what he'd done for the Order? Or was it that he didn't want to tangle with Hermione?

"Listen, Harry," Hermione said. "I don't want to fight with you. I'm asking you, as a favor, and for your own safety, just take a break until we know more."

"For how long?" Harry asked, then quickly added, "Just in case I theoretically consider listening to you."

She looked uncomfortable again. "Well, it's not like I can give you a timetable, you know."

"Of course not."

She stopped suddenly, and looked at Harry with undisguised curiosity. "Can I ask you something? Are you in love with Malfoy?"

Harry didn't answer for a moment. "Not that it's any of your concern, but no. I'm not."

"Think he's in love with you, then?" asked Seamus.

Harry shot him a sarcastic look. "I couldn't tell you, Seamus. He hasn't said anything."

Seamus looked contrite. Nervously, he glanced at his watch, and Dean did, too. It was getting late. He and Hermione were slated to be with Harry this evening, and he suspected Seamus and Ron were anxious to be gone.

Harry belatedly noticed the time. "Look, we're not going to resolve this tonight. I know you're doing this for me, Hermione, and I actually do appreciate you keeping me posted on what's going on at the Ministry. But I can't say I trust them. Especially not this week."

Seamus and Ron managed to make their longed-for escape, and Hermione took charge of dinner in the kitchen, leaving him alone with Harry.

"So what do you make of all of this, Dean?"

Dean shook his head sadly. "You have to remember, Harry, he saved my life. And Seamus' life. And gave up a lot to do it, too. I've had enough of betrayal for one lifetime, and I can't do it to him. But you have to do what's best for you."

It was hard not to feel sorry for Harry. It seemed as though any time he managed to find something that made him happy - although god knew how he managed to be happy with Draco, given their checkered past - circumstances worked against him to take it away. Part of him wanted to tell Harry to forget Hermione's warning and just do whatever he wanted. He'd earned that right.

But watching Harry, he could tell that the Ministry's suspicion had already begun, like a slow poison, to work its way into his mind. It no longer mattered whether Draco was guilty or not - Harry had let the thinnest edge of doubt creep in to his mind, where it would be guaranteed to grow and fester. Dean felt as if he were caught up in some grandiose Shakespearean tragedy, where Draco's destiny was never to be trusted, and Harry's was never to be allowed to trust. And here he was, a superfluous bit actor, helpless to do a damned thing about it.

* * *

_See, my friend, you won't have time to change your destiny,_  
Everyone can see the choice you made was wrong, all wrong.  
It's All Over Now - Tania Maria

. . . . . . . .

After the fact, Draco berated himself that he should have known better.

He should have known better than to think that the wizarding world would ever get over his parentage, his history, and his name.

He should have known better than to let himself get wrapped up in the lives of a bunch of sanctimonious Gryffindors who would never let an outsider into their circle of friends.

And he definitely should have known better than to trust Harry bloody Potter.

The first inkling he had of something strange in the wind was when he knocked on Harry's door one late afternoon, and Harry didn't open the door wide, as he always did, and jovially invite him in.

Instead, he wedged his body into the opening, greeting Draco with a false cordiality that struck him as ominous.

At least he got right to the point.

"Draco. I, um, wasn't expecting you here. Listen, I've got something that I need to say to you. Um. Maybe you'd better come in." The way he said it made it seem like an invitation to a funeral.

Harry couldn't seem to look at him for more than a few seconds at a time. Draco's heart fell. Whatever it was, it was bad.

"Well, it's about us, actually. Where we're going with this, um, thing." Harry couldn't even say _relationship_. It was very bad.

Harry was becoming so nervous, he looked as if he might fly apart trying to say whatever the hell it was that was bothering him. "Well, you know I've been going through a pretty rough time lately - what am I saying, of course you know - and I was thinking maybe with all of the stress of this...curse. Um. That we should maybe not be with each other until the Ministry can work out how to break it."

He had a sudden moment of enlightenment - a mental _lumos_ \- when it dawned on him what Harry's problem was. It was so ludicrous that he could hardly believe it - Harry was _dumping_ him.

Well, fucking hell.

And, being Harry Potter, the brave Gryffindor who never shied away from trouble, he was going to try to explain it in his most bumbling, inarticulate style.

"Well, the thing is, your silence has got people talking - you know what they're saying, too, that you're behind the curse. Maybe if we spend time apart, that would stop."

He waited for Harry to add that he didn't believe the gossip. When it wasn't forthcoming - when Harry was conspicuously silent on the subject - he knew he'd uncovered Harry's reason for breaking off with him.

Sometime during the past week, Harry had started to believe the rumors.

Whoever came up with the bromide that actions speak louder than words wasn't speaking from experience. He had tried, these past days, to let his actions tell Harry everything he couldn't speak. He'd tried to press trust into his flesh, to trace faith into his skin, to thrust belief into the intimate spaces Harry had opened to him. But Harry hadn't heard his unspoken messages.

A thousand things popped into his mind at the realization, and he was so tempted to scream them all at the self-righteous prick mumbling his miserable excuses in front of him. But he wasn't going to stoop that low; he was going to stand here looking down from the high ground at Potter crawling in the mire.

Except that he didn't want to stand here at all, he wanted to get away. Right now. He took one last incredulous look at Potter - really, he should have known better all along - and took a step back.

"Wait! I need to explain-"

 _Too fucking bad_.

A split second before he Apparated away, he felt Potter's hand latch on to his arm. He ended up transporting both of them to the street outside the Leaky Cauldron, although that hadn't been his intention. They were both lucky they hadn't ended up splinched.

Apparating for any real distance with a dormant passenger was debilitating at the best of times, and he was left breathless and stunned. He was furious, boiling mad at Potter, who even yet hadn't taken the hint that he didn't want to hear any of his absurd drivel suggesting that Potter was doing him a favor by stabbing him in the back. He was just so full of shit.

In his anger, he hadn't even noticed the rain, but now it was difficult to ignore. What had been a light sprinkle in Harry's neighborhood was a serious downpour here. The skies had opened, and in the short time they'd been standing in the street, Draco was already soaked to the skin. Fortunately, the nasty weather had driven everyone indoors, because otherwise he was certain they'd have attracted a good-sized crowd. Instead, they were alone.

He grabbed Potter's other arm and gave him a mighty shove backwards. Potter stumbled but managed to hang on to him, so he did it again. After a few more rough attempts to get him to let go, he freed one arm and swung.

And suddenly Draco was back in third year, and he and Potter were brawling again, over the Snitch, or some rude insult, or a miscast hex. He was swinging with little effect - Potter was simply trying to hang on, putting all his strength into gripping his arms and holding him back. Even as they struggled, he was aware of how ridiculous this all was, how idiotic they must look - like two drowned rats - but he had no ability to stop. After all these years, here they were again as though no time had passed at all, the two of them, fighting with each other like children over things that didn't matter. But somehow, now, they did matter. It _had_ mattered. And it hurt like hell.

Potter finally lost his grip on Draco's slippery, wet skin, and Draco managed to break free, stumbling back and nearly falling. He caught himself in time, and made sure he was out of arm's reach this time before he tried Disapparating again. But Potter was standing frozen in the street, his glasses so streaked with rain that he'd yanked them down at some point, so that Draco could clearly see his eyes, wide and shocked as he realized what they'd done. The last thing he heard was Potter's pleading voice saying, "I'm sorry, Draco. I want-"

Draco had no intention of staying to hear what Potter wanted. The only thing he'd heard that mattered right now was that Potter didn't want him.

* * *

_Hope is your survival; A captive path I lead._  
I Will Find You - Clannad

. . . . . . . .

Three days later, Draco was still trying to regain his balance. His anger at Potter had permeated his attitude about everything else as well, culminating in his undeniably dramatic rage tonight.

The fires had died away around Draco in his father's devastated study, smothered by Sully in her frantic intervention. He'd wanted nothing more than to burn down the entire Manor - to consume his past in a spectacular conflagration - but all that he had for his efforts was the bitter taste of ashes. Sully watched him nervously.

Destroying Lucius' study wouldn't erase its painful legacy. He knew that. Draco's rash defiance had sated his anger for a moment, but his victory faded as quickly as the flames. Nothing had been resolved in that mad instant. He knew he would need to spend the rest of his life trying to regain what he'd lost.

Maybe his decision not to burn down the entire Manor around his ears was a tiny step towards accepting his fate.

The Malfoy portraits had called Draco a traitor, but the epithet fit his father far more accurately. Lucius had betrayed everything that had once made the Malfoy name something to be respected. His father had risked it all in exchange for a madman's empty promise of power, and he'd lost. The enormous cost of his egotistical gamble was something they'd all been forced to bear, not just Lucius, but Draco and his mother, too. And all those who'd died in the war, like Gregory and Dumbledore, and those who lived through it and tried to pick up the pieces afterward. Like Dean and Seamus, and even Potter - but thoughts of him were too painful, and he buried them.

"Master Draco." Sully said, startling him out of his thoughts. "I is not knowing what Master is needing."

Of course not. Draco hadn't practiced anything as insane as this with her before he started his silence. He gave a short laugh, but it came out sounding choked.

"I is knowing how sad you is because you is saying goodbye to Malfoy Manor. Mr. Snape is not seeing this. Mr. Harry Potter is not seeing this, either. But Sully is seeing. Sully is knowing."

For a long time she merely watched him with concerned eyes. "Maybe Master Draco is needing to hear something. Something house-elves is knowing for a long, long time."

He looked at her curiously.

"Was you never wondering why we is serving wizards?" She shook her head at him, looking like a mother dealing with a wayward child. "Sully is never telling anyone before. No house elf is telling the wizards and witches, because they is never asking."

The question struck him forcefully - he _had_ never asked. He had never even wondered. It was just a fact, like the sun rising every morning. He'd taken her for granted and paid her no attention beyond their direct interactions of master and servant. House elves had always been an integral yet unquestioned part of his life. Like the Manor. Like his father. Or so he thought.

Her voice had dropped to a near-whisper, as though she were imparting the secret of the ages. "House elves is knowing that every wizard and witch, every centaur and giant, every being that is having thought in its head - they is all serving something. Goblins is serving money. Vampires is serving shadows. And elves is serving something, too. Humans. Sometimes it is being hard to do, but we is learning a long time ago how this is keeping our hearts from the dark. We is filling our hearts with caring, and darkness is not finding a home there."

How extraordinary.

He was appalled at his own ignorance. Everything he thought he knew about Sully was vague and half-formed, things he'd always been told by his parents or other wizards. He knew very little about these unusual creatures that shared his life. Stupid, childish beings, he would have said, fit only for the involuntary servitude that wizards kept them under. Slaves to the great wizard houses, and rightly so.

But these couldn't be the thoughts of a creature who was stupid and childish. In her awkward way, she was describing something tremendously profound.

She sat at his feet, perfectly calm, the book of Spanish curses cradled in her lap. "It is what Sully was telling Master Draco and Mr. Snape. Sully is not serving Malfoy Manor. Sully is serving Master Draco. You is needing me, but I is also needing you."

She frowned, but her gaze never wavered, and he discovered that he couldn't look away.

"Humans, though, is serving anything and nothing. We elves is never understanding why. Anything is emptying them, and darkness is soon finding another heart to be living in. Master Draco's father was learning this. His heart was being filled with great darkness, because he was serving a Manor and a name. Serving _things_. Master Lucius was thinking those things belonged to him. But he was being wrong. He was belonging to them."

Draco had spawned a thousand words in his own head to try to describe the tragedy of his father's life, and had never come close to explaining it as well as Sully had just done.

"Sully is being afraid. Sully does not want to see Master Draco belonging to things and to be filling his heart with darkness. Master is sad to leave the house of his fathers, but Sully is being glad. Tomorrow, Master Draco will stop serving Malfoy Manor, and then he is finding something better to be serving."

And that was his own tragedy in a nutshell, wasn't it? He had been searching desperately for something to serve, but had become disillusioned at his prospects and had nearly given up. Was it possible that she was right? She seemed confident that he'd find some meaning and purpose away from Malfoy Manor. Maybe it was time for him to stop serving bricks and stone, and find something more worthy of his service.

Seeing the book in her arms reminded him again of Potter's curse and his own attempts to break it. For the first time, he began to understand why he hadn't given up, even after Potter's suspicions drove them apart. He'd always known that he wasn't a saint, wasn't virtuous, or unselfish, or kind. The Sorting Hat had seen it from the first. The Ministry would never honor him for the things he'd done, parade invitations to him would remain unowled, the _Daily Prophet_ would never sing his praises. He didn't consider himself a good person, but he did know what was right. And trying to undo the damage his father had caused was right. Sully would say he was trying to keep the darkness from his heart, in the only way he knew how.

Tomorrow, he would have to resign himself to leave the home he thought he couldn't live without, to face the Ministry's scorn, the community's mistrust, and his lover's betrayal. He would have to find out what was important to him as the last of the Malfoys, without the symbol of that heritage he'd always depended on.

But he had Sully's devotion, her wise words, and her simple optimism. Perhaps for now that was enough to be going on with.

He stood up and Sully followed, still keeping her immense, dark eyes fixed on him. He reached out his hand to her, and she became very still, then let him capture her long fingers in his. Hand in hand, they left the ruined study.

* * *

Dean was putting the final touches on his first-ever drawing of Seamus - albeit a well-lubricated Seamus - when he heard someone Floo into his living room. At first he thought it might be Harry. Since he'd broken off with Draco, he'd been dropping by at odd times, looking for some kind of reassurance that he'd done the right thing for both of them. Dean knew he'd done a lousy job of providing it - he hated being in the position of being caught between one of his oldest friends and one of his newest. And to put it bluntly, he thought Harry had made a big mistake.

"Dean?" It was Hermione's voice, and he detected a note of distress in it.

He set down his pencil. "In here, Hermione."

"Oh, thank god you're here. I need to talk to you."

She appeared in the doorway, still dressed in her Ministry robes. He felt that tug of worry in his stomach that was so familiar from the war.

"What's wrong?"

She hesitated. "Oh, God, Dean. Everything. We've found Harry's curse."

The stricken look on her face left him feeling sick. "And-? Is there a countercurse?"

"Well, yes. But it's more complicated than we thought it was."

Well, when were things ever simple when it came to Harry? "Then why don't you tell me all about it over a cup of tea? That is, if you're allowed to tell me?"

"Yes. It's not secret, just painful. And it's all my fault."

He reined in his curiosity. If there was a countercurse, things weren't as bleak as he'd first feared. Hermione would tell him what was on her mind in her own good time, and he practiced patience as he prepared the tea in the cramped kitchen and let her settle into a chair to watch him at the chore.

Finally, he slipped a mug across the table at her. "So. Spill. Tell me everything."

"Well, the reason we didn't find it for so long is that it's an illegal Spanish curse." Hermione was always more comfortable with facts, so he wasn't surprised when she explained all the details of the curse itself at some length.

"It sounds nasty," he agreed. "But what part is painful?"

She sighed. "Well, breaking the curse."

He inhaled sharply. "You will be able to stop it, won't you?"

"Yes. Sort of. Well, what I mean to say..." Hermione wasn't usually this inarticulate. "We don't have to. Malfoy is already doing it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, with his vow of silence - he's doing it for Harry. To break the curse, someone has to keep silent for six months, five weeks, four days, three hours, two minutes, and one second."

"That's just..." - he sought an appropriate word - "bizarre."

"Bizarre," she echoed softly. "And very unselfish."

"But why didn't Draco say anything beforehand? If we had known what he was up to-"

"He couldn't. That's part of the cursebreaking - he has to keep the reasons for his silence a secret."

He sat back in his chair and let out a long breath. "So Draco was never out to harm Harry. Just the opposite."

She nodded, setting down her teacup with trembling hands. "And I never saw it. I never even suspected it. I was so busy fitting the facts together as I saw them that I forgot all about the most important fact - that there were people involved." She looked up at him and he could see tears in her eyes. "I've hurt them, Dean. Badly. I-" She couldn't finish.

He was at her side in an instant, encircling her with comforting arms. "Hermione, you weren't to know. You gave Harry the best advice you could, considering what you knew at the time."

He could tell she didn't believe it. She swiped at her eyes with an impatient hand, and he handed her a clean tea towel. "What I knew? I didn't know a damn thing. I know facts and dates and things I can look up in books. I know how to be so bloody right all the time."

"Those are good things to know, sometimes."

"I don't know the important things, Dean. Things like humility, and sacrifice, and...and love."

Dean pulled her close and held her. "That's not true, Hermione."

"Harry wouldn't agree. And Malfoy - oh, god.... He cares for Harry. He's doing a tremendous thing for him...it's got to be so hard, you know, the silence and the isolation. The stress of having to think about it every minute. And without his voice, he's got no magic. I mean, you and I could probably get along, but Malfoy's not used to that. I don't need to tell you, though. You see him. You know what he goes through."

"He does all right. Sully's a big help."

She was gripping his arms so tightly that he was in pain, but he let her. "And the trial. He let the Ministry take away his home and his inheritance, let them make him into a public pariah, and he never said a word. He did that for Harry. And after all he sacrificed, I made sure that he lost the only good thing he had left." She was crying now.

He was torn between a desire to comfort her and the stronger belief that she'd appreciate his honesty far more. "You're only partly to blame."

She struggled to regain her control, and her voice was shaky. "Come on. Harry only turned Malfoy out after I beat him up about it. And Malfoy - I can't ever make it up to him. I fell into the same trap that everyone does - something bad happens, blame it on the nearest Malfoy."

"Hermione-"

"No, don't try to tell me it wasn't my fault. It was. You were right, Malfoy was on our side, but I couldn't see Draco for his father. And, yes, he was obnoxious back at Hogwarts. But that's not nearly the same thing as being treacherous."

There was a long silence between them, and he tried to console her as best he could with gentle touches. She'd given up her death grip on his arms, and he rubbed his thumbs up and down her hands until she was calmer.

"So now we know why Malfoy's taken his vow of silence," he said. "I wonder why he decided to go for it in the first place? Let's face it, until the curse started, he hadn't even seen Harry since Hogwarts, except in a crowd. They weren't friends - in fact, I think we all thought that too much history stood between them for them to ever _be_ friends."

She smiled weakly. "I'm not even going to try to guess why. I've made such a hash of their lives already by assuming I had all the answers."

He smiled back and kissed her forehead. "Oh, Hermione. I'm sorry. But thanks for coming here and letting me know about this."

"It's hard enough telling you. I'm definitely not looking forward to telling Harry."

Dean was stunned. "You haven't told him yet?"

She looked uncharacteristically sheepish as she answered, "No. Some Gryffindor I am. I came straight here from the Ministry."

He felt a warm rush of tenderness. "You know that Harry will forgive you."

"Why should he? I don't deserve it. I don't think I can forgive myself."

"Listen to me. This is something I happen to know about from personal experience. People don't forgive us because we deserve it. Forgiveness is a gift none of us ever deserves. And you'll forgive yourself - eventually - because it's the only thanks you can give back."

She pulled him close and embraced him. "Thank you, Dean."

"I want you to believe it, Hermione. I hate to see you hurting like this. Remember, I know what it's like. You think you're bad, let me tell you what a piece of work I am."

"But I'm not the only one who needs forgiveness this time. The most important question is, will Malfoy forgive Harry for believing me? For all we know, he's broken his vow and stopped trying to break the curse after Harry tossed him out on his ear."

"Well, if he has, one of us can try to break it instead."

Hermione frowned and shook her head. "We can't. The curse only allows one chance to break it. If Malfoy fails, the curse will be on Harry for the rest of his life."

"Oh, shit."

"I know. I risked more than just a friendship when I decided to play God. Who knows if I haven't screwed up Harry's life forever?"

Somehow, knowing Draco, he didn't think so, but that wouldn't be enough to convince Hermione. "We need to let Harry know, and then find Draco to see if he's still focused on the cure."

"No. _I_ need to let Harry know. I caused all these problems, so I need to be the one to tell him. Time for me to start acting like a Gryffindor again."

"Okay. Would it be all right if I came along for moral support?"

"Yes. I'd appreciate you there very much, Dean. But there's one more problem. We can't get hold of Malfoy. Harry says that his owls are coming back with their messages undelivered - or else refused - and we don't know where he lives in London. Unless-"

He shook his head. "No, he always comes here - I've never been anywhere but the Manor. But I know someone who does know where he lives. Professor Snape."

"Oh. Right."

He almost laughed at her sour expression. "Don't worry, Hermione. Let me at least do this much for you and talk to Snape. For Gryffindor honor."

* * *

Dean watched Harry take in Hermione's halting explanation with a horrific sense of deja-vu - Seamus' eyes had registered the same shocked denial as he listened to how he'd been so brutally betrayed. Hermione didn't even try to hide her own mortification at the damage she had caused.

Harry sat in silence for a long time, not looking at either of them. Finally, he whispered, "Oh, my god. What have I done?"

"You only did what I led you to do," Hermione answered quietly. "I was the one who told you not to trust him."

He ignored her. "I've got to find him."

Dean nodded. "Have you found out where he lives yet?"

"No. But I've got to find him. Oh, god, I've been so horrible to him. I should have known."

"Harry, listen- " Hermione began.

Harry looked up, and the devastated expression on his face said more than his words ever could. "How could I have hurt him like this? Oh, god. I never meant to. I never even gave him a chance to defend himself. And al this time, everything he did was for me. He was-"

Silence. Dean couldn't think of a single thing he could say to make any of this easier for either one of his friends. Hermione was twisting her hands nervously, not daring to ask for Harry's forgiveness, but not willing to give up all hope of it.

Harry stood up with a new resolve in his eye. "I need to see him. I have to let him out of his vow or whatever this is - he doesn't have to suffer any more for me."

"No, Harry. You can't do that. No one else can break the curse now," Dean said.

"He's right. Draco's the only one who can-"

Harry whirled on her. "I heard what you said about the curse. I get it. But I've got to give him the choice. Maybe he can still go to the Wizengamot, tell them what happened, and get them to change their decision about the Manor. It may not be too late."

"Harry...."

"Hermione, please. Let me do this. I've got to do something to help him. There's no other way I can make it up to him. I've hurt him too much."

She took a step back in the face of his vehemence. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I don't know what I can do to let you both know how sorry."

Harry nodded. "I know. I just.... Well. I know."

"We thought Professor Snape would know where to find Draco," Dean said. "Let me get in touch with him."

Harry insisted on talking to Snape himself. He refused to call his former nemesis, instead insisting on traveling up to Hogwarts personally to beard the lion in his den.

"Snape knows Draco is furious with me. He'll never tell me where he is unless I can talk him into it. And I can't do that through the Floo; I've got to see him in person."

* * *

_No matter where you go I will find you,_  
If it takes a long, long time,  
No matter where you go, I will find you,  
If it takes a thousand years.  
I Will Find You - Clannad (Mohican lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

Potter's owl had alerted Snape to his imminent arrival. He heard the overzealous rap on the door of his dungeon rooms, but held off answering. He didn't want Potter to get the entirely mistaken idea that he was eager for this rendezvous. The insistent knocking continued, and he toyed with the idea of adding another minute for each knock before he opened it. After hearing the tattoo on his beleaguered door, he realized they'd be there all afternoon.

He watched his former student take an involuntary step back when he finally opened the door.

"Professor Snape. Um. I'm glad to see you."

He didn't return the uncomfortable smile. "Are you really, Potter?"

Potter had the good sense not to answer that challenge. Maybe he had finally learned something over the years.

"May I come in?"

He didn't reply, instead withdrawing slightly, and Potter took it for a yes. He left him standing awkwardly for just a little too long before motioning to an empty chair. He didn't offer refreshments.

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Mr. Potter? Surely your days are filled with banquets and celebrations of your many accomplishments. Or were you feeling particularly nostalgic today and decided you just had to look up your old Potions master?"

Unexpectedly, Potter didn't rise to the bait.

"Hermione discovered the curse that's on me. As it turns out, Draco is involved, but not in the way we'd thought. He's not trying to keep me under it - he's trying to break it."

He found it easiest to keep silent as Potter elaborated at some length. He absorbed the fascinating details of the curse, marveling at its creative use of human weaknesses. Potter didn't speculate on the curse's originator, but to Snape's practiced eye, it had Lucius Malfoy's fingerprints all over it.

"I need to find Draco. I need to apologize for ever mistrusting him. But I don't know where he lives, and he's refused my owls."

"Not without just cause, I think. Now I see why you're here. You wish me to tell you where you can locate your... friend."

Potter sighed. "Listen, Professor Snape, if you want to ream me out for the way I treated Draco, go right ahead. For once, you won't find me disagreeing. I've behaved like a class A fuckwit. Believe me, I already know that."

"Do you? Well, no matter. It's not as if Draco isn't accustomed to unwarranted mistreatment from everyone else in the wizarding world."

He watched that comment hit its target. Potter looked almost ill. "I already told you I'm sorry for not trusting him."

"Oh, I believe you, Mr. Potter. You've always excelled at being sorry after the fact. And you do seem to get an inordinate amount of practice at it."

"Okay, I deserve that."

Potter was being unusually submissive - Snape was beginning to think he might actually regret his actions. "And do you agree that Draco has every right to feel especially betrayed by your suspicion of him? Or maybe you didn't have any particular regard for him. Was he, as they say, just a fuck?"

That remark hit home. " _No_. It's not like that. Draco's not just a fuck. How can you say that after-"

He held up a warning hand. "Please refrain from giving me the unsavory details. I accept your word on the matter. So. By your own admission, you and Draco shared something more than just a bed, but you ruined whatever that was by mistrusting him. Do I have that right?"

"Yes. But you forgot to add the part about how sorry I am and how I need to find him and apologize."

"So I did. Consider it said - and accepted as well," he said with perfect magnanimity. He'd always thought of himself as the kind of person who would refrain from kicking a man when he was down.

Instead, he allowed an uncomfortable silence to remain between them and he could tell by the way the other man was fidgeting in his seat that it was bothering Potter.

Good. Let him stew a bit.

He was very much tempted to refuse Potter what he was asking. Saint Potter had grown far too comfortable and complacent after having everything handed to him on a proverbial platter; it was time he was reminded that his ill-judged actions did indeed have consequences. But Draco was hurting. He hadn't told Snape anything, of course; had only sat there morosely in the very same uncomfortable chair that Potter was finding so unpleasant at the moment. But Snape had already heard the news. It hadn't taken long for that particular bit of gossip - that Potter had abandoned Draco in the mistaken belief that he'd cast the curse on him - to make it to the rarified air of Hogwarts.

And Merlin help him, he knew he would live to regret it, but he couldn't deny Draco this one bit of happiness, no matter how poorly chosen it was. Not after everything else he'd suffered.

But he enjoyed listening to Potter beg him for it. "Please, Professor. _Please_."

"Make no mistake. This isn't about you, Potter. It is my firmly held opinion that you deserve nothing better than to have Draco's door slammed in your wretched face. But against my better judgement, I will indeed tell you where Draco may be found, if only to give him the opportunity to do just that."

* * *

**Chapter 9**

_The world was meant for you and me_  
to figure out our destiny (a thousand beautiful things),  
To live, to die, to breathe, to sleep;  
To try to make your life complete....  
A Thousand Beautiful Things - Annie Lennox

. . . . . . . .

By rights, Draco shouldn't have even been at home that afternoon, but Jake had been plagued by camera problems all morning and had let everyone leave for the day far earlier than usual.

So when Sully announced in her breathless, too-high squeak that "Mr. Harry Potter is coming here to see Master Malfoy and is waiting in the entrance hall," he was caught out.

Master Malfoy didn't wish to see Mr. Harry Potter. Master Malfoy was still royally pissed off at Mr. Harry Potter and wished Mr. Harry Potter would just fuck off and leave him to lick his wounds in peace.

It was probably the fact that he had no notion where he should Apparate to, combined with the abruptness of the interruption into what had once, but no longer, promised to be a tranquil afternoon, that caused him to impulsively grab his latest-model Nimbus and head out of the French doors to the terrace. And, he admitted as he mounted the hovering broom, his recent attempts at Apparating away from Potter hadn't been particularly successful.

His hasty escape wasn't hasty enough. Sully had innocently allowed the pushy, aggravating Gryffindor into the room just as he was making his ill-planned exit. With a practiced leap, he thrust himself off from the stones of the terrace into the dreary afternoon sky. With alarm, he noticed that Potter, always quick-thinking if not notably sensible, had managed to find another broom in short order and was racing out onto the terrace in hot pursuit.

He sped off into the air, climbing for the concealing clouds before he was seen. Already, Potter, on Draco's second-best racing broom, was slowly closing the gap between them.

The dampness of the clouds enfolded him like a soggy blanket. He skimmed in and out of the bottom edges of the trailing mist, balancing the need to be concealed with the need to see where the hell he was going. Behind him, Potter imitated his performance, dipping and diving, so that together they closely resembled the playful leaping and cavorting of dolphins in a boundless grey ocean.

They were racing faster than they ever had during their countless Quidditch games, never deviating from a straight path - where? When he opted for a quick escape by broom, he'd imagined some short jaunt until Potter gave him up for gone and pissed off back home. He hadn't planned for a chase scene straight from the last battle of the war. He was rapidly starting to chill in his light clothing - shit, he wasn't even wearing shoes. Fucking Potter. What was he on about this time?

He could see Potter slip into his field of view from the left, but he didn't think he had any more speed to give. He heard Potter shouting something, but his words were lost in the roar of the wind in his ears. They were side-by-side now. He turned his head to glare at his shadow - not that glaring had ever affected the idiot in the past - and watched with astonishment as the figure hurtling skyward beside him gathered itself up to - no, he couldn't be thinking that he'd manage to jump the distance between them at this speed? Surely not?

Of course he was. This was Harry sodding Potter, the wizard with the least sense and the biggest death wish on the planet.

In sheer terror for the folly of his pursuer, he made himself significantly slow down. He was practically gnawing on his tongue stud to stop himself from screaming out useless warnings to Potter. Incredulously, he could only stare as Potter swung close to him and hurtled across empty space and through the closing gap until he straddled both brooms at once, clinging on to him from behind. The sudden shifting weight caused them to lurch alarmingly, and for a sickening moment, as they were both tipped earthward, he was sure they were both going to slide off and plummet to their deaths. Then Potter did something tricky to restore their balance, and he gradually brought them to a complete stop, where they hovered at the edge of the cloud bank.

He stared at Potter, wide-eyed and breathing heavily at their nearly disastrous end, waiting for him to say something - _anything_ \- that made even a smidgen of sense.

Like the oblivious imbecile he was, Potter merely took it in stride, as though he commandeered other people's brooms during full-tilt chases over Belgravia every day.

"Fuck me, that was close," was all he said.

Draco was too overwhelmed to be as furious as he knew he should be. But he needed to do something with all of the adrenalin pouring through him.

So he slugged Potter as hard as he could.

The way they were jammed tightly together on the brooms made the angle between them too awkward for any decent leverage, and the blow was glancing at best, but the brooms dipped again with the impact. "Shit, Draco, are you trying to kill us?" Potter yelped. Draco stared back in surprise, incredulous at his inane reproach.

Potter blinked. "Well, actually, maybe I did deserve that."

Draco could only close his eyes in exasperation, wondering how in hell Potter had ever managed to survive his teen years.

Potter leaned forward until he could see Draco clearly and know that Draco could see him smiling. "I came to talk to you. But this isn't exactly the best place for a chat. I'm going to take us back to your place, okay?"

Potter swung the brooms around, and Draco let him. Now that they were traveling at a reasonable speed, they took much longer to make their way back to the flat, all the while edging along the clouds. Fortunately, the gloomy weather had served to keep his neighbors indoors, and their hired help weren't in the habit of wandering about gazing up at the sky. He tried to ignore the familiar arms clasping him, and the warmth pressed up against his back.

By the time they were back in the study, he was shivering, but trying unsuccessfully to hide it. Potter cast warming spells on Draco first, then himself. Sully was beside herself with anxiety, pushing tea at them as if it was holy water.

"Thank you, Sully," Potter said. "We'll be fine, now. Draco and I need to talk - er, that is, there's something I need to tell him - alone."

She finally let herself be convinced that, _yes_ , Draco was going to be all right, and, _no_ , it wasn't her fault, and, _no_ , she didn't need to punish herself, and, _yes_ , she should leave. Now.

But when she was finally gone, Potter let the silence hold for a while longer. Finally, he cleared his throat, and Draco knew he was in for a patented Potter speech.

"I'm here to apologize, if you didn't already work that out. I reckon by that little episode" - he attempted a weak smile - "I'm not exactly welcome here any more. And I understand that. I really do. I've been nothing but a shit."

He wouldn't have disagreed even if he could.

"I listened to other people when I should have paid attention to my own instincts. You'd think with as many times as I've got myself into deep water doing that.... Well. You'd think I'd have learned by now, but you'd be wrong."

Potter could make such impassioned speeches, he remembered, but he'd always been lousy at thinking before he acted. Knowing him, that would never change. But pretty words would never erase the ugliness of what Potter had done to him or wipe away the pain he'd caused.

"I was wrong. I know that now. I was wrong and I hurt you terribly. I'm begging you to accept my apology, but I don't know if you can. After what I did, I couldn't blame you if you never wanted to see me again."

Draco focused on preparing his tea and wouldn't look at him.

"There's something else I need to tell you. Well. We know everything. We worked out why you don't talk anymore. What you're doing." His serious gaze nearly undid Draco, whose heart was beating faster than it had during their daredevil ride. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He couldn't look away now even if he'd been _Imperio_ 'd to.

"Hermione found the curse."

Draco closed his eyes in surrender.

"That Spanish curse. She found the book that describes...everything. I know that you aren't keeping me under the curse. God, Draco. That's what makes this so horrible. Even after being with you - god, every way with you - I still wasn't sure about you. About us."

Potter stopped, and Draco couldn't help but open his eyes and look at him.

"Part of me thought - I can't believe how stupid I am. I thought you still might be capable of deliberately wanting to hurt me, like you did back at school. Instead, you've given up everything to help me. And I didn't know. I'm so sorry. I owe you everything, and instead I betrayed you."

Draco couldn't bear to sit still and listen to the pain so raw in Harry's voice. He stood up and walked over to the hearth, where he halted, deliberately turned away from Harry.

"Hermione feels like shit, too. She's been writing and tearing up letters to you all morning."

So that's what brought Harry here looking for forgiveness. Draco had let himself hope that Harry had seen the truth on his own - that he couldn't ever have kept Harry under such a horrible affliction as the jilted lover curse; that he was a better person than the Ministry and the _Daily Prophet_ and the gossiping witches in the streets said he was. But Harry had let others persuade him to believe the worst, and hadn't questioned that distrust until the solid proof of Draco's loyalty - the cold, hard facts - finally forced him to change his mind.

He was so disappointed.

And Harry knew it, too. "I wish I'd been able to see you for what I knew you to be, deep down. I was an idiot to listen to the rumors. I was a coward and I betrayed your friendship. So much for Gryffindor bravery. I wish I'd come to you sooner and apologized before I learned about the curse. It doesn't make me any less sorry, though."

But it made forgiving him far more difficult, Draco thought sadly.

Harry's voice was choked with emotion. "I wanted. Needed. To tell you that you don't have to do this for me anymore. If you've changed your mind, I understand. And maybe the Wizengamot will. You know. Let you have the Manor. If you want to tell them now what this was all about. You can break your silence, Draco. If that's what you want."

That wasn't at all what he wanted, but until this instant he hadn't been aware of it. He'd thought he wanted to forget he ever knew Harry Potter, to forget he'd trusted him, to forget the pain of his betrayal. To forget the taste of his lips, the feel of his breath, the sound of his cries as he came in Draco's arms.

But already he knew it would be pointless for him to try to resist when Potter had his mind riveted on a goal. And possibly Potter's attempt to woo him back was a more worthwhile goal than most.

The truth was, he missed Harry. All through his years at Hogwarts, more often than he liked to admit, Harry had been the focal point of his days - admittedly not in a positive way. He'd always found himself pulled into Harry's orbit, from the day he first saw him being measured for robes to the night they'd kissed in the corridor. He'd lost that focus during the war, during the years when he hadn't seen Harry, but once they had reconnected, it had taken him no time at all to recapture that near-obsessive desire to gain Harry's attention. Especially after that attention had become far more pleasurable.

So, even now, after Harry's belated and barely adequate apologies, after watching him unraveling as he came to grips with what he'd done, Draco was still able to forgive him. He would forgive him because that was just how life was; how people were. He'd learned a few things in the past several years about getting along in life. He'd learned that he didn't live in a world of saints and heros who never made horrible mistakes in judgement, who never disappointed their friends, who never took an easier path at someone else's expense. He would forgive Harry - now, and every time he needed to in years to come - because he knew too well what it was like to need forgiveness himself. From his mother and from Gregory. Forgiveness that, for him, would never come.

When he felt Harry's breath warm and so close on the back of his neck, he repressed a shiver of anticipation. And when he heard Harry quietly say, "Please, Draco. Please forgive me," he did the only thing he could have done right then.

Harry's eyes widened in surprise when Draco turned gracefully and lifted his hands to touch and then hold Harry's arms. He held his gaze for a long moment, then, with a slow, deliberate gesture, he slid his hands up and over Harry's shoulders and pulled him closer.

He was content just to look at Harry then, to watch the anxiety dwindle away and be replaced by another, softer expression of wonder. Finally, he could wait no longer, and he leaned in to bestow a tender kiss on Harry's willing mouth, lips barely touching lips, the contact just enough to send sparks of electricity through him.

"You are so, so beautiful," Harry whispered, which wasn't what he expected him to say at all. "How come I never noticed before? And I'm not talking about how you look."

They were touching each other as though they were incredibly fragile, and maybe, just at this moment, they were.

Harry caressed Draco's skin while his lips pressed light, slow kisses everywhere on his face. Gradually, the intensity of their touches and caresses grew bolder. Draco was far more aroused than their gentle embraces could account for, and for a moment he wondered about it. Why did he inevitably respond to Harry without hesitation or fear? None of the other men in his past had ever triggered this kind of passion in him. But soon, he no longer cared why; he wanted to think instead about when and where and _right now_. He wanted to seal their reconciliation in heat and hunger and completion, and he could feel that Harry wanted it, too.

"Anything, Draco. I'll do anything you'd like me to. You just have to show me what you want."

And they had the rest of the afternoon to work on that lesson.

They began in the shower, because the frantic broom ride had left them both disheveled. Draco loved to watch the way the water sluiced down Harry's lightly freckled skin and darkened the curls at the base of his cock. He lavished soapy handfuls of it across Harry's muscular shoulders, down the broad expanse of his back, between his fingers, behind his knees, all the while delighting in the whimpers and sighs Harry offered him in return.

Clearly, a hedonistic architect had fashioned the bathroom, designing places in the shower that they put to good use. Harry had melted onto a bench and Draco was kneeling before him, taking in the sight of him aroused and so hard for him. He teased Harry with touchless breath and the lightest caress of fingers until he was pleading for more.

"God, Draco, you're driving me crazy. Please...."

He didn't make him ask again. He nuzzled his mouth against the head of Harry's cock, and let his tongue lead the way down the entire length of him, carefully pressing his tongue stud against its underside until Harry moaned in response. Satisfied, he engulfed him entirely, sliding his lips tightly around the warm, soft skin. Harry began rocking his hips in response to the friction, at first gently, and then increasingly insistent as his excitement built. Then with a soft cry that Draco heard in every part of himself, Harry was tightening his fingers in Draco's hair and then gasping and coming, all his desire turned into bittersweet and salty warmth that flooded Draco's mouth.

He hungrily swallowed every drop of him.

He leaned back into the shower spray and let the water cascade down his back, delighting in watching Harry's slow recovery from his orgasm.

They spent lingering moments toweling each other dry, then Draco led them to the bedroom.

Oh, how he had missed Harry's bold fingers, his powerful hands massaging his skin, palms that were surprisingly softer than they appeared that stroked him into arousal. Missed his warm mouth, the soft brush of lashes against his cheek, his smooth skin where they touched, his reassuring weight pressing him against extravagant white sheets.

And the inviting words that Harry murmured against his ear - _please, I want you, Draco, god, yes, I need to feel you come inside me_ \- well, he'd missed them most of all.

* * *

It was all over too soon.

"I think it's probably smart if you don't spend any time with me when I'm under the curse," Draco heard him say. Harry was absent-mindedly playing with loose strands of Draco's hair, causing him to relax more than he thought possible. "But if it's okay, I'll come back later tonight. Leave your wards unlocked for me if you want me."

Draco wanted him.

The last days of his vow of silence found Draco unexpectedly content. He was needed at the studio only one day; the rest he passed in leisurely activities and blossoming anticipation of Harry's late-night visits. He even began to grow used to waking up with Harry beside him, and he no longer woke up at every unfamiliar movement as they slept together.

He spent the afternoon carefully preparing himself, taking a long, hot bath, allowing Sully to give him a manicure, and dressing with careful attention.

Dean answered Harry's door, and it looked as though Draco had interrupted a casual dinner.

"What are you doing here? " he heard Harry ask. "I thought I'd see you later tonight. Come in and join us. There's extra on the stove - help yourself."

He was too excited to touch a morsel.

Granger greeted him shyly, and he allowed her to apologize, until it was finally too much to tolerate.

The meal was eaten and the dishes done. The four of them sat anxiously in the living room, where Harry tucked himself close to Draco on the sofa and idly stroked a hand against his leg.

"What time is it?" Dean asked, for the third time in an hour.

Granger looked at her watch. "Eight thirty."

Harry looked up in surprise. "The sun set about an hour ago, at least. The curse has never been this late. But I don't feel it. Not at all."

"You won't feel it." Draco said, his voice barely audible at first. The utter shock of hearing him speak for the first time in months riveted everyone's attention on him, and Granger gave an undignified squeak of astonishment. "You won't ever feel it again. The curse is over. It's finished."

"Are you sure?" That was Granger, always the skeptic.

"Yes, I'm sure. The curse ended at about 5:38, close to the time I showed up. And Harry's far overdue for it to start, so yes, I'm sure."

Dean stared at him, dumbfounded. "Then the counter-curse worked. You broke the spell, Draco. I can't believe it."

Harry had yet to find his voice. He simply stared at Draco as though he were otherworldly, gripping him tightly with both hands in case he might disappear. For a moment, Draco was afraid Harry was going to cry, and then he was even more afraid he was going to do the same.

Dean filled in the awkward silence. "Can I be the first to ask you the question that everybody has been wondering about? Why did you decide to break Harry's curse?"

Draco was quiet for a long time. "If you don't mind, Dean, I'd like to tell him first. In private."

"Oh. Sorry. Sure thing."

Granger rushed over to Harry and gave him a jubilant hug. "Harry, I'm so happy for you. I can't believe it's over at last." She was beyond knowing what to say to Draco.

Harry finally got hold of himself long enough to say, "I can't believe it, either. Thank you, Draco." He encircled him in his arms and pulled him close, resting his head on his shoulder so that no one could see his face.

Hermione said, in a voice just this side of nonchalant, "Listen, Dean, why don't we pop on over to your place and start letting everyone know what just happened. We aren't needed here tonight, and I think Harry's friends - and the Ministry - should be told right away. Harry, would you like us to take care of that for you?"

"I'd be grateful, Hermione. There's something else I have to do first. So, yes. Thanks."

Dean took the hint. "Okay." With final congratulations and a good deal of hugging all round, they Disapparated.

"Damn, I thought they'd never leave," Draco said.

Harry looked at him with amazement and laughed. "My god, you're as beastly as you ever were. Come here, then, and let me thank you properly. And after that, I want to hear you talk to me all night long."

"And what would you like to hear me tell you, Harry?"

Harry stopped abruptly and stared. "Draco...."

"What?"

"That's the first time you've ever called me Harry. Say it again."

He did. As many times as Harry asked.

"So I'm asking you the question you wouldn't answer for Dean. Why did you decide to break the spell?"

He tried to tell him, and at first he thought he was doing a decent job of it. He told Harry about his attempt to save the Manor and keep Lucius' involvement secret. He carefully explained how mercenary he had been by trying to hide the curse from everyone else, and just how Slytherin the entire plan was. But the more he talked, the less he felt as though Harry was buying it. For some reason, Harry persisted in thinking it was all a sacrifice for Harry's sake, and that he was some kind of champion.

Stupid Gryffindor.

Finally, Harry quieted him with an inviting touch. "I'd love to hear you talk all night. I can't get enough of your voice. But really, Draco, I think I'd rather hear you saying something else right now."

"Hmm. Like what?"

Harry's voice became a low growl in his ear. "Oh, how about something like _fuck me, Harry... faster... harder... right now._ " He chuckled softly, and a shiver of excitement went down Draco's back. "Think you can manage that?"

"I can certainly try. But it's been a while, so let me practice first." He set his mouth against Harry's ear and whispered, "I want you to fuck me, Harry... faster... harder... _right now_."

Harry smiled as they headed toward the bedroom. "Keep talking, Draco. I'm definitely liking what I hear."

The touch of Harry's hand wasn't nearly enough, though, and the bed seemed so far away. On impulse, Draco planted his feet and used Harry's momentum to swing him back into his eager arms.

"Whoa. I-"

He didn't let Harry finish. His hands were already weaving into Harry's hair, anchoring him so that he could savor his tempting mouth. Some things were just as easily expressed without words, like the desire he felt rising within him. He watched Harry's eyes close, lashes fluttering softly as Harry responded to the pressure and demands of Draco's lips. With his tongue playing a teasing game with Harry's, he coaxed little moans and breathy whispers of encouragement from him.

"Draco, yes," Harry murmured, and then his words dissolved into mere sounds.

Draco deepened their kiss, feeling every touch, every taste, every gasp right down to his toes. It was everything he wanted and nothing he expected. And he tried to tell Harry.

"All day I've been thinking of you. I couldn't wait to see you freed. I- "

This time, Harry interrupted the conversation with another intense kiss. Harry's hands wandered over his back in soft caresses, settling on Draco's hips and pulling him closer. So perfect.

"Bed," he whispered. Draco nodded, and let him go with reluctance.

He was distracted by a substantial pile of scrolls near the bed that hadn't been there the last time he was here.

"Those aren't what I think they are, Harry. Tell me they're not."

Harry looked sheepish. "I didn't know what else to do with them."

Draco laughed. " _Incendio_. Works every time."

"But how did you.... I mean, you couldn't cast spells. Oh. Maybe you haven't got any, then."

"Don't be daft. They've been coming in great floods every day since the trial. Sully takes care of them for me."

"You don't read them, then?"

"Of course not. I already know what they say - mostly inarticulate rants about my flagrant perversion. Some accuse me of corrupting the sainted Harry Potter" - he leaned in and gave Harry a kiss embellished with a quick swipe of tongue - "um, yes, or say that I have you under a Dark Spell. A few exhausted owls bring pages and pages from upset teenage girls - and a few boys - reviling me for stealing you away from their fantasies. A few from DE sympathizers who want to press home the point that I've really let them down again."

Harry looked at him with amusement. "You forgot a group."

Draco quirked up an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"The posts aren't all horrid. Some are actually supportive."

Draco nodded. "Encouragement from other gay wizards, then?"

The laughter that followed surprised him. "Well, no. On both counts. Quite a few of them are from married women."

"You're joking. That's just...odd."

"I don't know. I happen to agree with them." Harry halted their progress and pulled him in close for another long, slow kiss.

Draco broke away, not without reluctance. "May I?" He had his wand out.

"Be my guest."

He pointed his wand at the overflowing pile of scrolls, and flicked his wand with an elegant flourish. " _Incendio_." A brief flash engulfed the offending messages and was gone as quickly.

"God, that felt good," he said in amazement. "That's the first spell I've said in months." He spun around, looking at the room. Soon the echoes of levitation spells, cleaning charms, and transformations rang out, interspersed with his delighted laughter.

A discarded pair of socks danced their way to the hamper. "You're mad, Draco," Harry said with a chuckle.

Draco's smile was all false innocence, and the look in his eye was positively devilish. "You haven't seen anything yet." He pointed his wand at Harry and began to speak softly.

Harry's buttons began to slip out of their buttonholes, and his shirt freed itself and slid down his shoulders. Acquiescing wordlessly, Harry raised his arms enough to let the garment fall to his feet.

Another word and his shoelaces untied themselves. He toed off his shoes, and, on Draco's command, they walked themselves over to the corner of the room. His socks followed.

Draco's mischievous smile was the only warning he gave for what came next. Harry's belt unthreaded itself and dropped at their feet. The trouser button was next, followed by the zip, which lowered itself with agonizing slowness. One final whispered word, and Harry stood in only his boxers.

"May I?" Draco asked again.

Harry nodded.

Draco wasn't about to use his wand for this. He set his hands on Harry's waist and eased his fingers under the band, drawing the soft material down and carefully freeing Harry's erection without granting him a single touch.

Harry whispered, "Oh. I. Yes."

Draco took a step back, but Harry followed, leaning in for a taste and sighing when he was rewarded. "You look remarkable," Draco told him.

"And you look far too clothed."

"Mmm. Let me do something about that." He called up his best studio mannerisms as he discarded his clothes, reveling in the arousal on Harry's face. Finally, they stood naked, face to face.

"Draco. I want you to do something for me."

"What?"

"I want to listen to you. Just talk to me."

He was confused. "I am talking to you, Harry."

"I know. But I want to hear you tell me what you're thinking when I touch you. When I do this-" He ran his hands over Draco's shoulders and slowly down his back, fingers following his spine. "Or this- " He traced his tongue from Draco's slender neck to his ear. "Or this-" His hands had reached Draco's arse and he pulled him close, their erections brushing and causing them both to gasp from the sudden sensations of friction and heat.

"Oh, god. I'm not sure I can. Words just don't...." he breathed.

"Please. It's just...I've been imagining this. What you would say to me if you could. We never had many conversations in all the years we've known each other. Not decent conversations." Harry pulled back to look Draco in the eye. "I've never heard your bedroom voice except in my fantasies."

"Oh." He hadn't though about it quite like that - he was used to listening to Harry talk during sex, and hadn't considered his own shortcomings. But Harry seemed thirsty for those missing words. Draco wasn't sure if he could be as uninhibited as Harry was that way - one of the drawbacks of Slytherin sex. He'd always been comfortable laying bare his body to his partner, but was careful to keep his emotions unrevealed. "I'm not sure I'm any good at it.".

"Let's practice." Wrapping his arms around Draco's waist, Harry propelled them onto the bed, half-sprawling on top of him. "Say my name."

"Harry. Like that? Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry, _Harry_." His lips were nuzzling Harry's ear.

"Perfect. Now tell me what you want."

Draco thought a moment, then obliged. "I want to feel your lips against my skin. It drives me insane." He tipped his head back to offer his throat to Harry's hungry mouth. "Oh, yes. Like that."

Harry moved over his body with hands and mouth, eliciting new responses from Draco with every gentle nip, every soft stroke and firm grasp. "God, Harry. That feels so good. Don't stop. Oh...."

"Tell me, Draco. Tell me what you want me to do to you. Anything."

"Let me fuck you."

"Yes." Immediately, Harry obeyed, casting a lubricating spell and sinking back into the bed with such visible submission that Draco's breath quickened with desire. Witnessing Harry's power and control offered to him so willingly, so obediently, was an amazing experience. "Anything I can give you, I will," Harry told him. "Just ask. It's yours."

This was uncharted territory, this kind of admission, and Draco was afraid if he spoke he might reveal too much. But Harry was urging him on with whispered encouragements. "Tell me what you want, Draco."

"I want you to... I... that feels..." He stroked into Harry carefully, first with fingers and then with his cock, incredibly aroused and fighting not to come too quickly. Harry's eyes were fixed on him, drawing him deeper.

"Tell me."

"I. Harry. I... want... you." He began to chant the words as though they were a mantra, keeping time with his thrusts. "I want you."

"I'm yours, Draco. I want you to take me. Yours." Draco could have come from Harry's voice alone, but the delicious friction of Harry rocking against him sent him careening over the edge. He was spilling himself into Harry, whose murmured words echoed in his head: "Yours. Yours. Yours."

"Yours," Draco answered, very softly, but he knew Harry heard him just the same.

* * *

_Talvez o mundo não seja pequeno,_  
Nem seja a vida um fato consumado.  
  
Maybe the world isn't small,  
And life isn't a consummated fact.  
Calice - Gilberto Gil/Chico Buarque (Portuguese lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

To Draco's dismay and without his knowledge, Harry had given an exclusive interview to _The Quibbler_ , gushing at length about what Draco had done to save him from Lucius' ghastly curse. He was horribly embarrassed and spent the next weeks cloistered on the Muggle side of the Leaky Cauldron to avoid the frenzy of publicity.

"I am no fucking Redeemed Draco," he growled to Harry, mocking the headline before tossing the paper at him in disgust. "Can't they get it through their thick skulls that I wasn't evil in the first place? Why doesn't everyone give it a rest?"

Harry's response to his complaints was always the same: a determined kiss that more often than not led to much more gratifying activities.

To top it off, Harry regaled everyone at JayKay Studios with completely bogus details of his mysterious silence, managing to paint Draco a hero in the made-up story as well. Because no one in Knightley's employ had ever heard him speak, the novelty of it disrupted work for days. And when Daniel eventually discovered his tongue stud, he was uncontainable, dragging him practically everywhere - Draco finally drew the line at the take-away restaurant next door - where he insisted on an impromptu display punctuated with his none-too-discreet and much-too-gleeful innuendo.

Severus was understandably sour about the whole affair. He'd ranted on at length about how very non-Slytherin Draco had acted, and they'd both ended up a bit testy with each other for a few days. Draco insisted that _as always_ he'd proceeded from enlightened self-interest, and Severus grudgingly backed down. But he still wasn't happy at all about Harry's new role in Draco's life.

"Don't be that way, Severus. Didn't you tell me not too long ago that I needed to lighten up and get a life? Don't tell me I don't take your advice. And at least you won't have to run that lonely hearts ad in the _Daily Prophet_ for me."

"Even when the most pitiful respondent to such an undertaking would have been far preferable to Potter?"

He only smiled serenely. "Face facts. Both Harry and I have a certain notoriety that sends people running for the exits. In fact, Severus, it might surprise you how well-matched we actually are."

Severus looked highly irritated. "Draco, after this, nothing about you would surprise me."

He shrugged his shoulders in defeat. "I knew you'd understand."

"And Potter's Gryffindor friends? Do they _understand_?"

"More than you'd think. Well, Dean and I were getting on as friends before Harry and I got together - don't look so shocked that I have a Muggleborn friend. And Granger's with Dean now, so she's got pressure from both directions to behave. The rest of them are caught out by the fact that they didn't object too strenuously when I stepped in to babysit Harry so they didn't have to. If they made noise about me now, they'd be exposed as hypocrites, so they suck it up for Harry's sake."

Severus reluctantly backed off.

Draco knew he still owed Sully a huge debt, but he approached the matter delicately.

"You were an immense help, you know," he told her. "A wizard who wanted to thank a house-elf might ask if she would like him to offer her clothes..."

He berated himself for not having a handkerchief ready - she wrapped herself around his legs, and the knees of his trousers quickly became soggy.

"Master is not sending Sully away? Sully is not wanting clothes," she sobbed.

Obviously, he'd said the wrong thing. "No! I'm not sending you away. No clothes, okay? It was a bad idea. Stop crying, please, Sully."

"Sully is staying with Master Draco?" She wiped her copiously running nose on the fine material of his trousers, and he tried not to cringe.

"Of course. I only meant to do something nice for you. To thank you for everything you did these past months. Can you think of something else you might like?"

She backed away with a shy smile. "Something Sully might like?"

He nodded. "Tell me." How bad could it be?

One snap of her fingers told him the answer. In her hands was a Muggle magazine, obviously well-read. The pages were folded back, and she offered it to him with an enthusiastic grin.

His own face pouted back from the page. Worse, it was one of the days where, for reasons still unfathomed, Knightley's make-up team had gone ten steps beyond the wrong side of androgyny, and Daniel had countered by going mad with a curling iron. He'd rivaled Pansy Parkinson for sheer femininity. Where Sully had come by this magazine he was at a loss to know.

"Can Master Draco make Sully beautiful like he is looking?"

Oh, shit.

"Well. Um. Yes."

That was why he found himself, two days later, urging Harry to pay Weasley and their rugrat an overdue visit, carefully warding the Floo behind him, and spending the next several hours demonstrating to his captivated house-elf the proper way to apply lip liner and blend eyeshadow.

"No, Sully, look here. You have to wait until the mascara dries, or you end up looking like a panda. Here, let's wipe that off and try again."

He was not weird, he kept telling himself - he was adaptable. It was a perfectly Slytherin thing to be doing.

"Here. I bought you some perfume, too." She opened the bottle and, to his horror, promptly dumped the entire contents on her head. He soon learned that even the finest French scents were nauseating in quantity.

Granger was probably the most contrite of Harry's friends, having been proven so very wrong in her judgements of him. She tried in her own way to make it up to him, becoming so obsequious that he was driven to avoid her as often as he could. Because she was so frequently in Dean's company, that proved difficult, and he resigned himself to her. But not quietly.

"I finally finished an Arithmancy analysis of the curse," she told him, unrolling a lengthy scroll for emphasis. "On the 6-5-4-3-2-1 pattern, especially. The number 6 shows up a lot when I look at it in the usual ways." A complicated explanation followed, but Draco hadn't bothered taking Advanced Arithmancy, and he lost her. "Well, there, can't you see?"

"No. What does it mean, exactly?" Harry asked.

Miss Encyclopedia was off and running. "The ability to break the curse quite obviously hinges around the number 6. Six represents stability, dependability, and especially protection. Look at this part." She pointed to an unintelligible tangle of numbers. "Overall, the whole pattern tells us that by bearing great responsibility and remaining steadfast, the curse-breaker will not only achieve harmony with his community, but will be the Protector for the one cursed. Also, he'll achieve a higher spiritual level of understanding about himself and his world. Probably the silence plays into that - a forced period of reflection when the curse-breaker becomes introspective and intuitive."

Draco thought it was all a load of rubbish, but Harry seemed to think she'd just uttered words of epic wisdom.

"Okay, explain this part one more time," Harry said, too enthusiastically. "About being my protector. That's just so dead-on, don't you think, Draco?"

Draco shrugged, but didn't say no.

Finnegan wasted far too much time trying to invent catchy titles for Draco to match Harry's "Boy-Who-Lived".

"I've got it," he proclaimed raucously. "The Man-Who-Loved."

Draco made a pained face at him. "Sod _off,_ Finnigan, you fuckwit." Harry only laughed.

* * *

_I thank you for the air to breathe, the heart to beat,_  
the eyes to see again (a thousand beautiful things)  
And all the things that's been and done, the battles won,  
the good and bad in everyone (this is mine to remember).  
A Thousand Beautiful Things - Annie Lennox

. . . . . . . .

Jake Knightley pulled his head back from the camera and gave Malfoy an amused look. "Calm down, hot stuff. We can't show wood for Burberry, remember? So take a minute and get hold of yourself. Ah, not literally. Try thinking about the economy."

Another voices chimed in. "Margaret Thatcher. Nude."

"No, Robin Cook."

"Ooh, how about Ann Widdecombe." There were appreciative chuckles.

It was a common game at the studio - helping a model rid himself of an unexpected erection. Draco hadn't ever been the focus, though, and even with his exhibitionist tendencies, he was becoming self-conscious.

"Getting stuck in the tube on a hot day."

"With a group of German tourists."

"Who've been drinking beer all afternoon."

"In lederhosen." That was Daniel, of course. "Ooh, sorry, that didn't help did it?"

"Um. Maybe I'll just wait, um..."

Jake wheeled at the unexpected voice. "Well, well, if it isn't Mr. Potter. I should have guessed."

Everyone laughed, and Harry looked appropriately mortified. "I thought you'd be breaking for lunch. Even models have to eat."

"So they tell me," Jake replied. "Repeatedly. We're just running behind; it'll be about another half-hour. Well, longer, now," he added with a quick grin.

Daniel spoke up. "Or we could break now and let Dragonboy take care of his little problem. I'm sure Harry-"

"Don't finish that if you want to live," Harry warned, and Daniel smiled back at him with borrowed innocence.

"No, let's take the half hour and finish this," Jake said. "We'll do some closed raincoat shots for a while. Half an hour, Potter. Now, shoo."

Daniel gave him a flirtatious look. "I know something we can do for half an hour, Harry." He took Harry's hand in his, entwining their fingers and turning them both around.

"If you try anything with Harry, Daniel, I'll hex you from here to the Shetland Islands," Draco warned.

Harry looked at Daniel with mock severity. "And I've seen him do it, too. You've seen Stonehenge? Well, that used to be the home of the last guy who tried to hit on his boyfriend."

"Yeah, yeah. What is it they say in America? All hat and no cattle?" Daniel kept walking with Harry's hand affectionately tucked in his arm. "However, I am a gentleman. Your fears are unfounded. Sadly."

* * *

A half-hour later, Daniel strutted back into the studio, arm in arm with Harry, looking as pleased with himself as if he were escorting the Queen. Or more likely, one of those young princes. One glance at Harry told Draco why.

"Harry! What happened to you?"

Harry looked apprehensive at Draco's words. "Do you hate it?"

"Of course not. You're gorgeous. Not that you weren't before, of course."

A very pleased Daniel had finally had his way with Harry's wild mop of hair, and Draco had to admit that the results were striking - much shorter, subtly styled, but still casual enough so that Harry didn't look too odd.

"You're sure you like it?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure. Daniel, you are a genius."

Daniel pretended to be deeply offended. "Well of course, Dragonboy. Do you think I'm a hairdresser just because I get to ponce around beautiful models like you all day?"

Draco looked at him pointedly. "Well, yes, actually."

"Oh, so harsh, love. I think I liked you better when you kept quiet. If you weren't such an insufferably snobbish and narcissistic model, Dragon, you'd notice that I'm actually good at my job. I love it." Daniel slipped a flirtatious arm around Harry and grinned slyly. "The poncing part is just a side benefit. We flamingly gay hairdressers have to keep up the stereotype, you see. No, you wouldn't see."

Draco knew that Daniel never failed to amuse Harry, who'd never quite known anyone like him. "So is this really all just an act, Daniel?" asked Harry.

Daniel was in an indulgent mood, especially after getting his way with Harry's appearance. "Of course it is. In a way. I mean, everyone puts on some kind of act in public, don't you think? Take you, for example. You're the straightest gay boy I've ever met. And take our Dragon. Well, he can't pretend he's not the hottest thing on two legs, of course, but deep down, I bet he's a right bastard. He just pretends to be nice to get you into bed."

From his expression, he could see that Daniel couldn't understand why it took them so long to stop laughing at his offhand remark.

Harry recovered first. "So you pretend to be outrageously gay, when really-"

"If you expect me to tell you that _really_ I've got a wife and three kids in Bexley, you're sadly mistaken. I'm really outrageously gay."

"With a boyfriend and three Bichon Frises in Earl's Court," Draco suggested.

"Too right. A boyfriend who I carefully keep away from the likes of you two. Self-defense, darling."

Harry held up his hands in mock alarm. "No worries, mate. Draco would-"

"- hex you from here to the Shetland Islands?" Daniel hazarded.

"Absolutely. Harry knows I've been specially trained in that sort of thing."

Harry's look of unexpected disquiet tipped him to the fact that he'd probably taken things too far for Gryffindor comfort, especially in front of Daniel, so he quickly backed off. "Oops, I forgot - I'd better pretend to be nice if I want Harry to take me to lunch."

Harry gave him a relaxed smile with a hint of gratitude in it. He took that as an encouraging sign and slid his arm around Harry's waist, pulling him close. Daniel got the message, and let go of Harry with showy reluctance.

He couldn't resist running his hand through Harry's now shorter hair. Daniel had done something to it to make it incredibly soft, and he threaded his fingers through it just above his ear until Daniel leaned over and slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch, Dragon. Do. Not. Touch."

Draco smiled, and pulled Harry closer into his embrace, returning his hand to Harry's hair. "Do you hear anything, Harry? Like a distant annoying buzz or something?" Harry smiled back at him.

Daniel folded his arms in a pout. "I can see I'm odd man out here. Oh, well, good thing I'm married to this lousy job."

"Didn't you just tell us you loved it here?" Harry asked.

"I admit it's more fun than if I worked in a mechanic's shop."

"I'd agree with that," Draco said.

Daniel snorted. "No, Dragon, love, I can't see you getting the tiniest bit of grease under your perfect fingernails. I'd say you're pretty well suited to your job as well. You just lounge around here looking beautiful, where I get to fuss over you, and the great unwashed get to fantasize over you."

Draco didn't want to dwell on that right now, but he recognized that he was growing dissatisfied with modeling. He'd taken the job at first because it was one of the few things he could do while trying to break Harry's curse. But recently, he felt as though it had fallen into the category of something to fill up the day. Not that he didn't appreciate Daniel, Jake, and the others, but he'd been sensing that he needed to do something more productive than look good.

He could always do that just for Harry.

But maybe if he asked, Jake wouldn't mind teaching him a few things about working on the other side of the camera.

Daniel was looking at Harry with renewed interest, as though something had just occurred to him. "You know, Harry, I still don't know what it is you do."

Harry smiled. "Isn't it obvious? I'm one of the great unwashed. I fantasize over Draco."

"No, really. Tell me."

Draco took pity on Harry. "Well, he used to be a great war hero. That's where he got that great ugly scar - saving the world from the forces of evil. Now he's just an international spy. But, of course, he has to tell everyone he's an investment banker."

Harry grinned. "It's a calling. What can I say?"

"Oh, of course," Daniel said. "Thanks for sharing."

Harry looked pointedly at his watch. "Shouldn't we be heading off to lunch? We're burning daylight here."

Daniel sighed. "Run along, then. Honestly, I never know how you two manage to make it all the way to your hovel in Belgravia and back, eat lunch, and still have time for a quick shag."

"We don't -" Harry objected.

"You do, too. Don't lie to me."

"Oh, in that case," Draco said, and looked mysterious. "Magic."

"You don't say. Well, later. And I'm warning you, Dragon, don't you dare mess up his hair, or I'll hex you from here to the Shetland Islands."

* * *

**_So ... Light me up like the sun, to cool down with your rain,_ **

**_I never want to close my eyes againâ€¦_ **

A Thousand Beautiful Things - Annie Lennox

Harry looked too serious for what they'd just been doing.

They'd Apparated to Draco's flat, because there, no one was near enough to hear them - or maybe it was just that the walls were so thick. Harry, always talkative during sex, now loved to encourage him to be just as vocal. Harry's neighbors didn't particularly share their enthusiasm.

"What's on your mind, Wonderboy?" Draco asked. He let his hand trail gently up and down Harry's now-sticky thigh - neither one of them had been in a great hurry to cast the cleaning charm just yet.

Harry turned his head to look at him. "Oh. Just thinking about you."

"Ummhmm. Then why aren't you smiling?"

Harry responded with a spirited grin before he reached out a hand to pull Draco's lips to his. "Better?" he mumbled against his lips.

"Better," he agreed.

"I've wrecked your makeup. And your hair. So sorry."

"I'm not. You beast." Harry liked to apologize for every little thing, but Draco found he only meant it once in a while. "I've mastered more grooming charms than any wizard has a right to."

"Why am I not surprised, Malfoy, you great ponce?"

Harry got a wicked gleam in his eye and reached both hands into Draco's hair, tangling it wildly. He let him play for only a moment before stopping his game with a slow capture of lips and tongues until Harry's hands let go.

A bit later, Harry released him and fell back against the pillow. "Actually, I was thinking how much I like to hear your voice when we're having sex."

He heard the veiled reference to his part in breaking the spell, but he didn't want to pursue it. He was still uncomfortable with Harry's gratitude over the whole thing. He wanted their relationship - whatever it was and wherever it was headed - to be based on something a little less altruistic.

"What else do you like, Harry?" he whispered.

"Why do you always try to change the subject?"

He widened his eyes in pretend innocence. "What do you mean? I thought we were talking about sex. Did I miss something?"

Harry laughed, as Draco knew he would. For all their volatility growing up, they'd so far shown a wholly unforeseen and versatile ability as adults to maintain an even keel with each other. So far. For one thing, Harry had the good sense to stay away when he recognized that Draco was in one of his admittedly frequent mercurial moods.

"Well, we _were_ talking about sex. Kind of. Mostly I was trying to tell you how much I appreciate listening to you now."

"I could have used a little of that appreciation back at Hogwarts."

"Oh, sod off, Draco. You know you didn't deserve it then."

"No more so than now," he said lightly.

Harry rolled over, and there it was - that trademark earnestness that Draco was learning to dread.

"Draco, why won't you ever let me tell you how thankful I am to you for breaking the curse on me?"

"You did tell me. Once is enough. And I told you I didn't do it for you. I did it because I thought it was the only way to hang on to the Manor. Why won't you ever let me tell you that?"

"You did tell me. Once is enough. Besides, it's bullshit, Dragonboy, and you know it."

He slid himself up until he was sitting with the sheet barely draped across his lap. "No, it's not. It's true. I'm not some selfless Gryffindor like you're making me out to be. I'm utterly selfish, and you shouldn't be thanking me for that."

To his annoyance, Harry just smiled. "Maybe that was true at first. But I watched you sit through that entire trial and still you didn't break your silence. Not when you had your only real chance at hanging on to the Manor." Harry was gesturing with his hands, counting off his points on still-sticky fingers. "Not after the Ministry took it from you. Not even after I was such a shit to you and threw you out. Not until the curse was broken. Now tell me honestly, what reason could you have had for doing that?"

He didn't answer, because he knew what Harry said was true. Those last weeks, after the trial - he _had_ done it for Harry. But that didn't mean he was ready to admit it.

Harry wasn't finished. "Did you ever seriously think about giving up on breaking the curse? And please tell me the truth. I'd really like to know."

He debated not answering. Of course he'd thought about it. He'd let it simmer in him when he was frustrated, let it boil up when he was angry at Harry for doubting him. But he'd never truthfully considered forsaking the attempt, not after the first time he'd seen Harry suffer. And the fact that he'd never seriously considered abandoning Harry to the curse - well, it scared him.

He let the word fall so softly from his lips that he wasn't sure Harry heard it. "No."

But Harry did hear. "Thank you," he said, just as softly. Draco wasn't sure if it was for the answer or for the reason behind it.

Harry was tracing a lone finger around Draco's bare knee. "It's okay, though. We don't have to talk about it anymore." He peered up through the still-long fringe that concealed his scar. "I've got other news."

"Hmm?"

"The Manor is on the market."

He felt a sudden clenching in his stomach, and was surprised to hear himself say, "Good luck to the Ministry trying to fetch a decent price for it. Maybe someone might buy it and turn it into a Dark Arts museum."

Harry let the silence build before venturing another comment. "I was thinking I might-"

He realized instantly what Harry was about to propose and cut him off quickly. "No, Harry. I won't let you buy the Manor for me."

Oh, he could tell Harry was digging in for trench warfare on this one, but there was no way he was going to let him get even one shovelful of dirt. He may no longer have the Malfoy fortune, or the Manor, or the legacy, but he did still have Malfoy pride.

"But, Draco-"

" _No_. Just no."

Harry wore the same expression he remembered from the night he'd left Hogwarts for the Death Eaters, and he felt the same irrational desire to let Harry have his way. But he hadn't then, and he wasn't going to cave in to it now.

"Harry, please. It's not that I don't know that you want to make it up to me for losing the Manor. But to tell you the truth, I don't think anything I could have said to the Wizengamot at the trial would have made any bloody difference. Too much politics, and not enough common sense, you know?"

Harry started to interrupt, but Draco wouldn't let him.

"Hear me out. I know you think the Manor meant everything to me. It's what everyone thinks. Hell, it's what I thought - until a house-elf set me straight."

The statement was as astonishing to Harry as he'd hoped. "Hermione would be so proud of you," he managed to say. "She'd be signing you up for SPEW on the instant."

"No doubt."

He was feeling devilish enough to let Harry's curiosity build until he was forced to ask, "So what did this mysterious house-elf say to you?"

"It was Sully, of course. I always thought she belonged to the Manor and would have to stay behind after I lost it, but instead she insisted on coming here with me. She told me that the Manor was merely bricks and stone, and that she could only pledge her loyalty to a person. It made me think."

"About what?"

"That it was stupid to pledge my loyalty to bricks and stone. I reckon I'm at least as smart as a house-elf."

"No doubt."

"You know, when I was younger, I had only good memories of Malfoy Manor, but over the last few years, the bad memories far outweighed the good ones. I bet you didn't know this, but by the time I left, I'd permanently closed off about half of the rooms. The room where mother was killed, of course. The portrait hall. Lucius' study. Well, what was left of the study."

Harry's eyes widened. "Why, what happened?"

He was embarrassed to admit what he'd done. "Let's just say I had a bit of catharsis the night before I moved out. But I did manage to stop myself before I burned down the whole mansion."

"Oh." Harry looked as if he wanted to add something, but he shook his head slowly, then added "I've had nights like that myself."

"No doubt. I couldn't enjoy living there, and yet I stayed. And the only reason I did was that I'd always been told that was where I belonged. That I couldn't be Draco Malfoy apart from the Manor." He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes so he could see Harry clearly. "But that was wrong. It just took me a while to work that out."

Harry showed no signs of interrupting him, content to let his hands lightly stroke along Draco's body as though he were gentling an upset magical creature. Draco knew that Harry hadn't had much opportunity in his past for skin to skin contact, and sometimes it seemed with all his touching that he was trying to make up for lost opportunities. Not that Draco was complaining.

"Severus tried to tell me that I wasn't living in the Manor, I was dying there, but I didn't listen."

Harry's voice was thoughtful. "When did you finally work it out, then?"

He knew the answer to that right away. "After it was gone. I discovered that I missed fighting to hold on to the Manor far more than I missed the Manor. Don't get me wrong - I was pissed off at the Ministry for what they did to me. Still am, as a matter of fact."

Harry frowned, but kept up his constant massaging - wrists, arse, shoulders, calves - any piece of Draco within reach was fair game. "You're not the only one who's pissed off."

He smiled. "Yes, and just when are you going to go back and retrieve your Order of Merlin?"

"Not any time soon." Harry's remark told him he wasn't the only one who felt a need to protect his pride.

"Listen, Harry. I won't pretend it doesn't hurt, but I'm getting over it. I'll be okay. After I was forced to leave the Manor and come here - well, I found out that for the first time, I didn't have the burden of all my history to drag around. Here, I can just be Draco Malfoy. Not Lucius' son. In a lot of ways, I'm happier now than I've ever been."

"Because you lost the Manor?"

"Because I lost the Manor. And good riddance." He let the corners of his mouth quirk up at Harry's inquisitive glance. "Okay, there may be a few other reasons for my newfound happiness. But now you know why I don't want you to buy the Manor for me. I don't want it back."

Harry shifted closer to him, bringing Draco's hand to his own face and stroking it along his cheek. "I'd give it to you if you wanted it, you know that, because you deserve it for what you did. Not just what you did for me, either. For the Order, too. But I think I understand."

Draco leaned down and kissed the top of Harry's head. He almost told him that he wouldn't have accepted it from him even if he _had_ still wanted it, but what was the point? It would only provoke an argument for nothing, and they were having such a nice...lunch.

"Look, Harry, if you still feel a great urge to waste boatloads of your wealth trying to spoil me, well then, go right ahead. Like I said, I'm selfish. Just don't buy me Malfoy Manor."

"Okay, okay. Then how about three Bichon Frises?"

"Fuck, no. Nothing that demands more attention than I do. Get me a Lamborghini and teach me how to drive."

Harry let out a short burst of laughter. "You're joking. What do you know about Lamborghinis? For that matter, where have you even _seen_ a Lamborghini?"

"On your telly, of course. All the cool guys drive them."

"Oh, god, I've created a monster. All right, stop smacking me, you fiend. If you really want one, I'll buy you one. I suppose you'll want a matching outfit to go with it, too."

"Well, that goes without saying."

"But I can't teach you to drive, because I don't know how myself."

He smiled wickedly. "Then I'll have to find myself a fit Italian driving instructor, won't I? _Oh, Paolo, show me again how to work that gear shift...bene, bene_...hey!" He'd been too slow to dodge the pillow Harry playfully cast at his head.

"No way, tiger. Although I might allow you one who's suitably old and ugly and female."

"Ha. Your jealousy is so apparent, _carissimo_." He allowed himself a languorous stretch, deliberately paced to ensure Harry's full attention, then he slid out of bed. "Look, you've made me late for work."

"What about something to eat?"

"No time. I'll grab something from the kitchen on my way out. It's the model's latest fad diet - too much sex and not enough food."

Harry followed him, pulling him in for a final kiss. He let Harry play with his tongue stud, something they both enjoyed probably far more than was healthy.

"Harry, I need to get back to the studio," he said at length. "If not, I'll be fired, and then I'll have to live as a kept man."

"And that would be bad, _how_ exactly?"

"Trust me, Harry, even you can't afford me."

"Well, then, can I come with you?"

He shook his head. "No, better not. I've totally wrecked your new haircut. Daniel would not be happy with me if he sees you." That wasn't true - the hairdresser had done such a good job on Harry's unruly hair that for the first time in memory, it behaved itself and gave Harry a devilishly tousled appearance.

"Hmm. I hear the Shetland Islands are rather nice this time of year. If you're lucky, maybe I'll come visit you."

Draco tossed him a quick wave and headed out the door. A second later, he poked his head back in.

"Harry, _mio innamorato_ , that Lamborghini? Slytherin colors." With a final smirk, he was gone.

_Fin._

* * *

* * *

There's a short story in this universe: Autumn Can Really Hang You Up the Most

And the sequel is now complete: Delicate Sound of Thunder

This story was improved immensely by the hard work and dedication of my beta editors. I can't begin to tell you how much time and thought they spent on helping nurture this story along. Without them, this story would be far less polished and interesting. Thanks especially to the talented Isis (isiscolo), who spent an enormous amount of time and energy helping me work through my technical writing faults, and to Aja (wayfairer), who excelled in story structure, pace, and characterization. Zionsstarfish gave me encouragement and praise just when I needed it, which I appreciated greatly.

I would like to thank Icarusancalion for information she wrote and posted on her LiveJournal about how to write a battle scene - her explanations were truly fascinating and helpful.

Aja came up with the accurately calculated Arithmancy (Numerology) interpretation of the numbers in the Spanish curse, and they were so cool, I had to use them - thanks, Aja!

I'd also like to thank A.J. Hall (a current partner at Redmund, Hall, and Strongfellows) and the readers and posters of hp_britglish for help with my questions on British customs and people.

The quotations (except for the Faulkner and Rowling quotes and the Wings of Azrael poem) are from songs that I was listening to as I wrote. The lyrics had a way of wrapping themselves into the story, taking on added meaning as I listened - except for two songs, which were direct inspirations for chapters of this tale. The first is _Warsaw 1943 (I Never Betrayed The Revolution)_ , by the South African artist, Johnny Clegg. The song is based on a true story of two friends; one betrayed the other exactly as Dean betrays Seamus. In the song, both friends are killed in prison. The second song is _San Vicente_ by the Brazilian singer/songwriter Milton Nascimento, and describes in poetic terms the political unrest in Brazil during the 1970's.

Finally, I got the idea for the manner that Draco breaks the Jilted Lover's Curse from a Grimm's fairy tale called _The Twelve Brothers_. A sister takes a vow of silence to free her brothers from a spell that had turned them into geese. She faces the same mistrust that Draco does in my story.


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